Incubi Umbraeque
by osmandias
Summary: The foes of the Imperium are deadly, and none more than the Chaos Space Marines. A psyker of vast power pitted against a young Inquisitor who will end up casting nightmares and shadows across everyone in their path. Chaos/Inquisitor story.
1. Prelude

**Prelude**

**913.M41**

**Jollana Librarium**

Ten thousand years was ample time to reflect on past mistakes and mend broken trust.

Or not, not when the individual still believed themselves justified in their deeds. Ahriman had denounced his exile centuries ago, preferring to call it a pursuit of arcane knowledge and understanding. One which lesser beings could not grasp, their feeble minds never looking beyond the next sunrise. He had travelled the length and breadth of the galaxy, across the five zones of the Segmentums, through the remnants of unnamed xenos civilizations. His eyes had born witness to countless conflicts, beholding feats where the mind could no longer comprehend and words paled. On planets where suns never rose and across realms of glass, the sorcerer uncovered primordial lore better left alone. Each piece was a part of the greater puzzle, the intricate tapestry which created and held the cosmos together, in comprehending the machinations of gods.

The orifkanos, acquired from the reclusia of Hellebaum. A shard of bone from the daemon B'Av Sha'Ti'Kdgusa, spirited away from a nameless world in the Eye of Terror. The spirit stone of an Eldar warlock, captured in battle against the host of Zahr-Tann. An Imperial Navigator taken from a broken battle fleet.

Each piece brought Ahriman closer to his goal of complete understanding, but it was never enough. His obsession drove him forward, a mania to outstrip those who banished him from the Planet of the Sorcerers. His quest had taken him into the Koronus Expanse, a region of the Halo Stars, to a solitary planet of ice dubbed Jollana. In the bitterly cold Imperial outpost, the only place people inhabited was the grand librarium, built atop a pinnacle of ice in the middle of the desolate wasteland.

The Jollana Ordo, charged to safeguard manuscripts millennia old, rarely allowed outsiders past its doors. The few rogue traders who braved this section of space acted as merchants for the planet; trusted enough they had been allowed inside the sole librarium and came to know what artefacts it held. Ahriman had uncovered the location from one trader and was rewarded for his efforts. In Jollana's frozen vaults lay a scroll which, when held by those trained in the arts of divination, gave the bearings of psykers whose presence would influence both present and future events. A scroll the Chaos sorcerer could use, and use well.

Ahriman's battle cruiser, the _Khermuti_, presently hung in low orbit over the world. On the surface lay the librarium, its occupants believing the galaxy had forgotten them. They had thought wrong. With no defences against outside forces or a way to summon aid, Jollana Librarium would fall with ease. Ahriman and his coven prepared for the expedition to the surface, holding council in the ship's strategium. Like many other chambers on the vessel, it was furnished with the trappings of those who delved into the mysteries of magic and illusions. Banners waved listlessly against the walls, stirred by the passing of will-o-wisps. The images inscribed on the cloth minutely changed appearance, never the same. Light bled into the strategium from torches ensconced on the walls, the colour of the flames flickering from a scarlet red to an icy blue.

The Thousand Sons chosen to be part of Ahriman's inner cabal stood around a circular table hewn from black marble flecked with grey. Above the table floated a three dimensional map of the Jollana Librarium, perceived weakened sections of the edifice marked in red against the dominate green. The finer points of the assault were being delegated when an aide hurried into the strategium. The mutated being bowed, well aware his presence was unasked for and unwanted, hurrying to speak.

"My Lord Ahriman, the sensors indicate a vessel has translated from the Warp not far from us." Conversation died at the aide's proclamation. Twisted and hunched over himself, the servant bowed lower under the weight of so many eyes. "It is a Vengeance-class grand cruiser, transmitting to our ship's encrypted communications channel."

"What are they saying?" Ahriman, his elaborate armour reflecting the green light of the hololith map, cut quickly to the heart of the matter.

"They desire to speak with you and no one else. The crew is waiting upon your verification before proceeding, my lord, but our weapons are armed in the event this becomes hostile. Our scryer believes the vessel originated from the Planet of the Sorcerers in part to its venerable age-"

"Fool," Ahriman hissed, his voice low and mocking. "For someone to have access to the _Khermuti'_s personal transmission codes meant they had to have come from the Planet of the Sorcerers."

Covering its hooded face with heavily veined hands, the aide hastily apologized. Ahriman dismissed the menial before turning his attention to the Sons assembled around the table. "We shall continue this after I have dealt with the new arrival. Until then, attend to your duties and prepare yourselves for Jollana's surface."

Once the Chaos marines had left, Ahriman rose from his chair and, staff in hand, made his way to the command deck of the ship. The sorcerer's pulse raced excitedly. He did not know the meaning behind the ship's arrival, but that would change. Ahriman strode toward the technicians in charge of the voxcaster, one of the Thousand Sons beckoning him over.

"We have confirmed the Vengeance grand cruiser as one commanded by the Thousand Sons," Kapharon spoke, answering the silent question. One of the few trusted Thousand Sons under Ahriman's leadership, his captaincy was undisputed, having survived for so long with a wealth of experience. "They have matched all codes we have sent. There is no doubting their validity. By your order, we will relay with them and open a hololithic link."

"Do we have an idea of who it is?" Ahriman asked. Whoever was waiting on the other side was masterfully concealing their psychic presence, and when Kapharon shook his head, Ahriman exhaled quietly.

"Ahriman, is it possible after all this time we could be summoned home?" The hope Kapharon expressed, mirrored by the others on the bridge, pressed against Ahriman's psyche. It was too much to wish for. Ahriman waved him away.

"Have the forward batteries ready to fire should things sour. While this moment may be a turning point, it could just as easily be a trap." Caution had become a close friend to the Chaos Space Marine in his travels, one which served him well. This time was no different to any other.

Kapharon issued the order and the lower decks broke into frantic activity to obey. Ahriman stood ready at the helm, watching the coils of the hololithic display activate. A low hum reverberated across the bridge, the voxfeed squealing against the feedback. Kapharon signalled to Ahriman that the transference had gone through. The towering display screen flickered. Static hissed as the feeds struggled to align properly, and slowly an image began to focus.

It was the last face Ahriman wanted to see. Ten thousand years could change many things, but time would not change the hostility he held against Osis Pathoth.

The vizier removed his ornate death helm, his familiar ghostly smile present. Time had left the marine untouched; his eyes still judging and seeking out the inherent weakness of others. Ahriman controlled the rate of his breath, containing the anger which flared at the individual who had orchestrated his downfall. Now was not the time to lose himself in a red fury. Carefully choosing his next words, Ahriman deliberately withheld the worst of the verbal barbs.

"Of all the faces to appear and fate chose yours. I was not expecting to see you, Osis Pathoth. I take it is no coincidence you are here and so far from the Eye. What brings you?"

"You are not the easiest sorcerer to find in this universe, Ahriman." Pathoth's tone was neutral, carefully measured. "I spent much time in tracking you down. Imagine my amazement to find your ship still in working order after so long."

"I have excellent Mechanicum priests," Ahriman calmly replied in the face of the insult. He felt the tension rise from all present on the bridge, those waiting for the invisible blade to fall and a battle to break out. "Why is my presence so important that you would seek me out and not one of your lackeys?"

Pathoth wanly smiled. "Our Primarch wished it to be so. None other could be entrusted with such a monumental task." He kept from saying more, deliberate in the action and at the same moment keenly reminding Ahriman who held Magnus's favour.

"And what is so crucial to be said that you have become the messenger?"

Beside Ahriman, Kapharon groaned quietly. Discreetly moving his fingers, the captain signalled the Master of Weapons to stand ready. If they were fortunate, their vessel could fire off one salvo before being obliterated from the stars.

"Such harsh words, Ahzek. Did you not say so yourself, long ago, we would cross paths once more? Where you would be the wiser of us both? Perhaps you should listen to what I have to say before jumping to unnecessary conclusions." Pathoth's face dominated the display screen, the unnatural colour of the vizier's eyes arresting everyone's movements. "Lord Magnus has seen the web of the future. Your strand was found to be weaving back into the greater fold once more. Your star is on the rise. In lieu of our Primarch being unable to be here in person, I have come as his proxy. As such, my word is as powerful as Magnus's would be."

Ahriman gripped his black staff. The desire he had quashed returned, being allowed to return home after so long. The exiled Sons, hearing their sojourn in the universe could soon be ended, looked expectantly at Ahriman. Yet, the caution Ahriman employed rose to the fore. "This is a bold move, not unlike Magnus but surprising. What is stopping me from killing you should I wish to, Pathoth? There's no amicable blood between us."

The laughter of the vizier boomed across the command deck, harsh and derisive. "My mission takes precedence before my ego. Magnus's word is law. If you wish to return to the Primarch's graces and not destroy the hope of your wayward cabal, it wouldn't be prudent to kill me. I stand here to see to it what my Primarch wishes will be so. If you attack me, he will see it as a strike against his own flesh."

Bitter acknowledgement swept over Ahriman. The tension eased from Ahriman's gene-enhanced body, but did not vanish. "What are the conditions to Magnus's assessment?"

"Now we are truly thinking alike, Ahriman." The patronizing smile Pathoth gave threatened to undo the mental calm Ahriman had achieved. "I will watch and observe, and come the time Magnus sees fit to bring you home, he shall inform me. Prior to that, I will join my forces to yours. Of course, you shall hold command. Think of me merely as an... advisor of sorts."

Ahriman thought he heard a note of derision in the words. Osis Pathoth, the Vizier of the Magus, subservient to his orders? The sorcerer smiled under his helm, considering the power dynamic. Pathoth's presence would be almost bearable.

"I assume these plans from our Primarch will take immediate effect?"

The vizier marginally inclined his head. "Of course."

"I will require a test of loyalty."

"Name it," came the answer, quick and assured.

Ahriman gestured at a point beyond the screen, in the direction where the death world of ice lay. "Break open the Jollana Librarium. Commit yourself to the battle. Allow me to see the truth to your words. As you are so fond of saying, do Magnus proud in your endeavour and you will find a place in my cabal."

* * *

Osis Pathoth led the assault against Jollana Librarium, if it was even worthy of being called an assault. Against an unarmed and mortal opponent, it was an absolute massacre. The Thunderhawk the vizier and his warriors were in screamed down through the frigid atmosphere, buffeted by the sheer winds which tossed ice and snow up into the heavens. Dropping through the thick clouds and out of the storms wracking the upper stratosphere, the Thunderhawk made straight for the grand librarium. It sat like a beacon in the middle of a snowy wasteland atop a spire of ice, the mirrored sides of the librarium weakly reflecting the light that glinted off the ice fields.

Inside the craft, Pathoth made ready with his squad of Rubric Terminators and sorcerer-adepts. He hadn't taken many warriors. It was meaningless to bring a company against scholars who had never fought a day in their lives. His helmet, the silver death mask with its mocking smile, was sealed and the jewels set into his power armour smouldered with an inner fire. Pathoth meditated, strapped upright in the vertical harness as the others were, one hand resting on the pommel of his khopesh, the other holding his ornate staff. Ahriman had been no fool to send Pathoth first to secure the librarium. In the event the rumours were false, and Jollana had hitherto unknown defences, Pathoth's marines would be the first to know.

He knew it would not happen. Before leaving the Planet of the Sorcerers, Pathoth had spent countless hours undergoing rituals to strengthen his body and fortitude his mind against the tasks before him. Magnus had been clandestine in his words to Pathoth, mentioning that Jollana was only the first step in the setting of a larger stage, with the galaxy as the backdrop. Use to such insubstantial words, Pathoth had thought no more on the subject. He trusted Magnus and the inherent workings of Tzeentch to show him the way.

"Thirty seconds to deployment," the pilot's voice crackled over the comm-link. The Thunderhawk banked to its left, angled out, then the craft shuddered as it landed on the large plaza dominating the area before the librarium. Lights flashed inside the vessel, harnesses were released, weapons made ready. The assault ramp dropped, and a bitterly cold wind rushed into the Thunderhawk, bringing with it a whirlwind of snow. With a pulsing thought, Pathoth ordered his Rubric Terminators forward, the five advancing in a diamond pattern across the snow-swept plaza. Behind them, Pathoth and his cohort of sorcerers followed, footprints wiped clean by the ferocious wind.

Jollana Librarium, crafted in the likeness of a grand cathedral from Terra, reflected the light of the world and the images of the invaders alike on smoke-coloured mirrors. Pathoth could not see any outer support structure beyond the reinforced steel gates standing before his war party. Nearly hidden under the snow drifts, the doors could only be opened from the inside, and it looked as though it hadn't happened in a long while.

"Open the door," the vizier ordered to the foremost of the Terminators.

Striding up to the doors of the librarium, the Rubric Terminator activated his lighting claws. Before the first stroke was finished the defences of Jollana countered. The surface of the mirrored panels bubbled, small orbs rising up from the dull glass. Slitted eyes appeared on the surface of the odd bubbles, locking on to the Chaos marine who was hacking away at the surface of the doors. Pathoth was a fraction of a second slower than the defence system, his mental command unable to reach the marine in time. Cut down by the barrage of powerful lasers, the Rubric Terminator fell silently, crashing into the deep snowdrifts.

The perceived threat dealt with, the eyes disappeared back into the mirrors.

The marine's soul flickered above his cracked and pitted armour, indecisive in where to go before Pathoth stretched out a hand and summoned the spirit to him. He guided the essence of the fallen Thousand Son into a jewel on his gauntlet. Safe there, the soul of the Rubric Marine would be bound once more when his armour was repaired. Gazing at the librarium with new respect, Pathoth weighted his options. For Terminator armour to be overcome so quickly, the technology could well predate Old Night. His thoughts must have been unguarded for one of the sorcerer's was quick to speak.

"An interesting choice of weaponry," Mhkai, a sorcerer-adept of the second tier, spoke out loud. "It will be a joy to know where this librarium took its security detail from, won't it, Lord Pathoth?"

"Indeed. A more brusque approach will be needed in overcoming this." Snapping his fingers, Pathoth singled out Bethos, a fourth-tiered mage. "Cover the librarium in currents of lightning. Technology still relies on circuitry no matter its form, and has always been weak to the natural powers of the Warp. If Ahriman hoped to know about the nature of this defence system, he should have come in person and not sent another."

A scattering of laughter came from the group. Bethos walked forward, careful to stay beyond the range of the librarium's defences and in the shadow of the Rubric Terminator. Blue sparks of lightning crackled from his fingertips, turning into great arcs which rose over the white snow and howling wind. Directing the lighting across the edifice, Bethos enclosed the smoky glass in the rippling currents born of power from the Warp. Piercing through the outer shell of the librarium, the sorcerer-adept forced the lightning into the minute circuitry he saw without physical eyes.

The result was instantaneous. Glass panes cracked; larger panels sheared down the middle and plummeted off the side, into the snow far below. Exposed to the harsh elements, the stone casing of Jollana lying underneath the mirrored exterior, was now undefended. Bethos turned back to his lord, the magic he wielded trickling away. He bowed, taking his place again next to his compatriots.

"Advance. Bring down the gateway."

Moving forward at the command, the second Rubric Terminator attacked the door with unbending determination. He cleaved through the metal with ease, the energy field surrounding his power fist crackling. A hole wide enough for two marines to walk abreast was created, the remains of the steel gateway curling outwards like flower petals, withered and useless. Without a thought to safety, the Rubric Marine passed through the hole and stepped into the librarium. The other Sons followed, leaving the Thunderhawk to guard the entry point.

Osis Pathoth beheld the majesty of Jollana Librarium for the first time, the beauty of its architectural interior not lost to the sorcerer. Flying buttresses ran down the length of the librarium's grand hallway, their height lost to the shadows where torchlight could not reach. Frescoes painted in gold leaf and silver lined either side of the corridor, the subjects varying from cherubim to hidden geometric patterns overlaying the next. Many scenes depicted the glories of the Imperium, Pathoth sneering at the lies wrought on the walls. Stain glass windows, undamaged from the lightning Bethos had unleashed, cast multicoloured light on the pale marble floor.

Passing down the middle of the grand hallway, the surviving Rubric Terminators flanking him, Pathoth walked quickly to the heart of Jollana. Mindful that by now the inhabitants of Jollana must know of the invaders, he cast his mind's eye ahead, searching the aether for signs of hostility. The sorcerer-adepts, led by Mhkai, maintained a kine shield over the group. Pathoth found no anger at what was happening and no defence preparations made by the people who called Jollana home. Doors to rooms and stairwells stayed closed. After the Ordo had been eliminated, a proper search of the librarium could begin.

"We knew this would happen. It was only a matter of time, the one constant in the galaxy that cannot be bartered for or reasoned with."

The voice, reedy and thin, came from an old man. He stood at the top of a wide staircase curving down into the atrium Pathoth and the Thousand Sons had marched into. Dressed in thick brown robes to ward off the chill, the elder human did not seem surprised to find the servants of Chaos in his halls.

"If you daresay you knew of our coming and had ample time to prepare, humour me." Pathoth looked at the man, the blue lens of his visor glinting menacingly. "Why did you not bother?"

"It was all the same, the ending. We looked for alternative paths, prayed to the God-Emperor for His guidance," the man made the sign of the aquila, "but nothing changed. We knew we were locked in our time. We've come to accept it with grace and humility. The taint of the Warp touches Jollana and all within. I have seen this very ending so many times. I'm glad this will be the last time I shall witness it."

While the man had been speaking others of the Jollana Ordo, similarly dressed in the same heavy robes, appeared. Grouped around the railing which ran the length of the second floor, half-hidden in shadow and exposed to the torchlight at the same moment, they were calm. Nobody struggled against the inevitable. Each waited passively, heads bowed and aquila rosaries wrapped in their hands.

Pathoth laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. "Here you all stand, willing to die without a fight. Have you no idea who I am or what master I serve? Of the treasures and knowledge you leave unguarded in your passing?"

"It is unfortunate, but like your Legion was once, we were loathe to destroy the knowledge we have been bound to protect. No book shall be put to the torch, no manuscript shredded."

"The Thousand Sons still protect the sanctity of knowledge for the sake of knowledge," Bethos countered, growing angry at the old man's quiet air of superiority.

"You corrupt the knowledge you seek." The man, obviously the most senior of the Ordo, descended the staircase. His words held a strength to them his frail body lacked. "You serve a slave master but the Jollana Ordo, _we_ serve a higher master who guides humanity and recognizes our sacrifice. Trying to speak common sense to you, Osis Pathoth, is like wringing blood from a stone. It can't be done." Without fear the old man looked up at the towering form of Pathoth. His presence was mocking, the smile he gave infuriating.

The vizier reached out with his mind, entrapping the elderly human in a psychic binding, and waved his staff ahead of him. A vicious thought was unleashed. In unison, four heavy bolters from the Rubric Marines were brought to bear on the undefended humans of Jollana. The nerves of many failed; they fled down the corridors in the upper levels of the librarium while their brethren died in the atrium. Not many seemed eager to accept death as their leader said they would. Soon the stench of blood permeated the air, the life-giving fluid trickling down the steps and pooling on the floor below.

"Your orders, lord?" Bethos was eager for a hunt, his aura wreathed in red. The Terminators, bolter clips empty and cartridge shells littering the floor, stood and waited for new orders.

"Find the cowards and strip their minds of the knowledge they hold. After that," Pathoth gazed at the leader of the Jollana Ordo, "dispose of the bodies."

Mhkai was the first sorcerer-adept to leave, hungering to ravage the unprotected minds of those he caught, adding their knowledge to his own. Bethos found his prey by following their fear and panic, their psychic backwash tangible. Not as bloodthirsty as the followers of Khorne, the servants of Tzeentch enjoyed destroying their enemies in a different matter. Screams of men driven mad by unknown terrors echoed down the marble halls, ending only when their tormentors allowed it to. Through it all, Pathoth questioned the leader of the former Jollana Ordo.

"A dangerous move for you, mortal, for you piqued my curiosity. How did you come to know my name? Not even the Imperium's Inquisition has such knowledge. Did something whisper it in your ear? Or was is a stroke of good luck?" At each question, the invisible bonds holding the man slowly tightened.

Instead of gibbering like an imbecile and begging for his life, the elder kept calm. "A little sprite told me." Sweat beaded his brow under the bodily assault, his voice growing fainter. "She talked about you to anyone who saw her. It always made me wonder how a little girl will trust a monster like yourself."

Slighted by the man's impunity, Pathoth gave the human a cruel but fitting death to match his riddling words. Forcing the power of the Immaterium into the man's weakened body, the sorcerer began to change his internal structure. Using his own body as a conduit, Pathoth allowed the powers that be to finish what he had begun.

Eyes erupted from smooth flesh, fingers dissolved into tapered fins, and the elder's face ran like the melted wax of a candle. Dropping the still-living body to the ground, watching the mortal thrash and die in agony as he became change itself, Pathoth activated the comm-link to the _Khermuti_.

"Pathoth to Lord Ahriman." He frowned at having to use the title and not being given the same respect in turn.

Static hissed across the channel, then Ahriman's voice, laced with veiled arrogance, spoke. "Has the attack on Jollana gone as planned?"

"It has. The grand librarium awaits your presence." Pathoth stepped over the now dead form of the old man. Black viscous fluid bubbled from the torn and mutilated flesh. "When will you begin your descent?"

"Within the hour. Have the librarium prepared before then."

Ahriman's imperious tone betrayed his excitement. The comm-link connection was broken, white noise crackling in Pathoth's ear. He turned the comm off with disdain, regarding the mutated body on the floor. He mulled over the last words the elder had spoken; finding it something to be locked away for contemplation at a later time and place, Pathoth placed it from his mind. There was a librarium to be seen, tomes to be taken for his own before others laid claim to them. Pathoth's footfalls echoed in the now silent cathedral, a slaughter house to the knowledge of the ages.

* * *

Ahriman went alone into the depths of the Jollana vaults. The grand sorcerer refused the Thousand Sons to follow, knowing the scroll he sought was meant for his eyes alone. Pathoth hadn't contested Ahriman's orders. Indeed, he had led him to the doorway leading into the catacombs. Confident there were no defences in the colossal vaults, hollowed chambers carved from ice and locked with powerful wards, Ahriman's staff rapped in time to his footsteps. Descending the marble stairwell, where stalactites of ice hung overhead, Ahriman's psychic mastery annulled the protective sigils on every vault he passed.

Guided along by the currents of the Warp which ebbed and flowed around Ahriman, the sorcerer arrived at the last vault. He could sense the treasure beyond the barriers, the weight it carried crushing against the seals holding it safe. Not for much longer. Left hand touching the surface of the vault door, a faceless sheet of adamantium with no lock or keyhole, Ahriman flexed his mind. An invisible force impacted on the psychic shield in one swift blow. The holy wards defending the vault door broke amid the sound of falling glass. More blows rained against the metallic surface, weakening the adamantium until the final impact brought it down. Amid the sound of ice sheering and cracking along the walls, the door caved outwards. Ahriman stepped over the crumpled metal and into the vault.

Frigid air flowed into the repository, mixing with the musty air locked away for so long. It was the scent of unopened books left to dust and mildew, of dormant secrets about to be laid bare. Cloying and familiar, the smell reminded Ahriman of other librariums plundered and storehouses ransacked. Endless shelves of books drew back into the shadows, lost from view. On the shelves sat small chests, locked in chains and stamped with the seal of the double-headed eagle. Kept in the vault for so long, the contents within some of the chests were powerful enough to have warped the surface of their containers. Faces twisted in agony were reflected on the metallic sheen of the reliquaries. Ahriman walked past the strongboxes, deaf to the pleading souls whispered promises.

He kept to his path. Ahriman knew what he was looking for. What had been waiting for him.

The marine halted before a chest made of bronze and inscribed with runes of an unknown script. Brushing the dust from the lid, Ahriman cracked open the chest housing the Jollana scroll. He reached in and withdrew the yellowed vellum, bound tightly and capped in silver. The possibilities the scroll could reveal, the powers Ahriman was capable of binding to his will, were limitless. And now his.

"Ill-gotten gains you hold in your hands. A being as seeped in blood and damnation as yourself, even if you took the Emperor's forgiveness, would be cast from His light and into the maws of the Warp beasts."

Ahriman turned in surprise to the thundering voice. Standing at the opening of the vault was a man clad in black power armour, heavily edged in gold. Gazing down the blade of a force sword, this stranger pointed it at the sorcerer's throat, eyes burning with the affirmation of one who knew right from wrong with no grey between. Slips of parchment covered the warrior's armour, holy litanies scrawled across the white surface. Ahriman glimpsed the despicable symbol of the Inquisition embossed on the armour. Blood thundering, the Tzeentchian prepared himself for a confrontation.

"Emperor's maggots is all you are," Ahriman hissed. He held the divination scroll in his left hand, transferring the staff to his right. How the Inquisitor's existence had gone unnoticed would be resolved later; Ahriman had to act. "Weak-minded fools who cannot think for themselves, that is what the Inquisition is. You're beholden to a weak mortal who lied to everyone."

"I have given my oath to the God-Emperor that I will be the hand to slay you." The Inquisitor's blade never wavered from its intended target, his tone deadly.

"I wouldn't recommend it, Inquisitor. Taking on a Chaos sorcerer is a mission for morons and fools. Which are you?" Ahriman edged into the shadows between the bookcases, gathering tendrils of Warp energy to the focal eyepiece of his staff. From encounters with past Inquisitors, Ahriman had learned to wait, letting the mortals make the first move and then counter.

"For decades I have tracked your path, arch-heretic, and I will have your head if it kills me." The unnamed Inquisitor took a step inside the repository. "The Ordo Hereticus does not suffer the witch to live. You have lived long past your time. Upon my pledge to the Throne, today will find you facing your judgement!"

"Your mind is as jagged as your tongue. I have never seen your face though I know many of your brethren. After I break your bones, I shall take what secrets your sort is so fond of from your mind." The theatrics of the other was tiring, his words pure madness. Ahriman had never met this lunatic until now.

"Listen not to the words of Chaos for they hide behind falsehoods and under the guise of corruption!" With a voice of a preacher the Inquisitor quoted catechisms. "You took the rightful toll from the Black Ships that day, leaving Inno charred in your passing. Your plotting began on that very world, but with His providence, I was sent there to root out your corruption. And now I will finish my duty."

Ahriman's confusion was short-lived. The lapdog of the Emperor charged, a lance of righteous fury striking at its foe. Facing the Inquisitor's blow with his staff raised, Ahriman unleashed an onslaught of psychic power. The downwards strike of the force sword was rebuffed by an ethereal barrier; an opening in the Inquisitor's guard was made. Continuing his attack, Ahriman manifested lighting in the air to bring against his crazed enemy.

"Blessed are those who keep faith in Him," roared the Inquisitor. "He who dies in the glory of the Imperium will be forever venerated!" Barrelling past the lightning barrage, armour free of scorch marks and pitting, the warrior crashed into – and fell through – Ahriman. Bracing himself for a crushing blow, the Chaos marine felt the phantom dissipate in its passing until nothing remained. It left Ahriman chill inside with muscles knotted and stomach roiling. The virtuous words echoed in the icy tomb like a bad dream until they too faded.

The most basic of initiates in esoteric lore knew a sending when it occurred. Fooled by the skill its crafting took, and feeding from the confusion it brought about, Ahriman chuckled mirthlessly to himself. He had nearly brought himself to a state of panic by some _thing_ which held no substantial form.

The sending's words rang in his mind. Witch hunters and phantoms of the void never unsettled him. This one had.

A sending, when manifested, came with purpose and intent. Hurtled through the seething mass of the Immaterium to Ahriman, the mage would find the reason behind this one appearing in Jollana. No coincidences existed in a galaxy as vast and tumultuous as this. Keeping the knowledge of the encounter to himself was the wisest course of action, Ahriman concluded. If Pathoth were to find out he would have no peace, hounded for what he was hiding. Some secrets were better kept to oneself.

Clutched protectively against Ahriman's chest, the scroll remained unharmed. Now, greedily, Ahriman unwound the cords and unfurled its blank surface. He intently studied the empty parchment, frayed along the edges and yellowed with age. Then, like raindrops of ink falling and caught by the vellum, faint markings began to appear. Weak at first, they grew stronger until writing covered the scroll. Words bloomed along the parchment, twisting its way along, recognizing the diviner abilities of the one who held it. Numbers and the names sprang forth, the locations of planets and their bearings in the universe given in fine detail.

One name kept reappearing, Ahriman discerned, a name perfectly divided into itself and holding the numerological balance of creation and destruction. The spheres of the universe worked of their own accordance, though nothing was cast blindly to chance. Such a thing did not exist. It was the exact name the phantom had screamed at Ahriman.

Inno.

* * *

He had been right, the former sage of Jollana Librarium. The Warp blessed Jollana with its touch. Pathoth relished being so close to it, almost reminiscent of the Planet of the Sorcerers. Everything in the librarium was infused by the Empyrean, the air rippling with rich colour and sound to those possessing the higher senses to see it. At the corner of his sight, just beyond the faintest whisper and with the assurance of a promise fulfilled, Pathoth knew the power of Tzeentch waited.

The vizier had found a private library toward the summit of the librarium and set to perusing the shelves. Perhaps its owner was the elder lying dead in the atrium far below. One hand idly drifted over the titles of the books, many which Pathoth already held in his collection. The small library, which ran the length of the curving wall, gave a magnificent view of the snowy plains far below the cathedral. Pathoth ignored the panorama, having seen more awe-inspiring scenery in his lifetime. Lumen globes, hanging from fanciful iron cages, cast a warm glow about the chamber. Pathoth's eyes settled on the gold script of a book's spine, _Parvala Vicis_, the title unfamiliar to the sorcerer. He was about to pull it from the shelf when a child's voice called to the Chaos marine.

"Pathoth! I finally found you."

Pathoth turned about at the sound of his name, certain there were no children present in Jollana when it was taken. Yet there was one, who somehow knew who he was, carefully making her way down the marble steps leading into the bibliotheca. She was small, as all children were to Astartes, dressed in a multitude of colourful robes with powerful runes sewn into the hemline. Her pale blonde hair was swept back into a tight plait, her blue eyes sharp, and she smiled as she approached the vizier. A Gyrinx was curled in her arms, the xeno feline passively looking at the giant towering over it.

"I knew I would find you here," the little girl chirped. "You're always here. Is there anything new to read, Pathoth? Another bedtime story?" She spoke without fear, standing alongside the Chaos marine and chatting amicably with him. Pathoth speculated how a mere infant would know his name. The words of the deceased elder were now falling into place. The embrace of the Warp was indeed close. Jollana was a host to gateways to other realms and distant, undefined futures. Sometimes beings appeared.

Pathoth knelt down, removing his morbid helmet to look the girl in the eye. He would humour this child to glean answers. "No, I have found nothing new. You will have to make do with stories of ancient villains and demi-gods until I can find something more noteworthy."

"Stories with princes? And Eldar?" Her face grew excited and she jumped up, barely grazing Pathoth's knee.

He frowned. "Nothing as simple-minded as that, sprite. Where have you come from?"

"The _Khermuti'_s observation deck." Mistaking Pathoth's raised eyebrow as disapproval instead of confusion, the child hurried on. "I know you don't want me up there but Argos," the Gyrinx turned its head at the name, "ran up there and I had to get him. He could have gotten lost, or worse, become someone's dinner. Don't tell Ahriman of this, please."

Pathoth touched his nose. "I will keep this in utter confidence between us." Her words befuddled the mage. There was no observation deck surrounding them, just bookshelves, and absolutely no children were aboard Ahriman's vessel. He knew little of children, finding himself uncomfortable in the presence of this one. The vizier changed tactics.

"Tell me, sprite, how do you know who I am?"

It was the child's turn to look confused. "Because you have told me. Are we playing the guessing game? I forgot the scorecard in my room."

"There is no time for games today, child. But tell me, what is your name?"

The girl giggled. "Pathoth, are you being silly? You know my name." In her arms, the feline began to lick its paws.

Laughing along with the entity Pathoth said, "I suppose I am. Enlighten me, for as you know, I am old. Ten thousand years is a long time."

"My name's Neferuaat." She accentuated the last syllable, raising her nose delicately at the same time.

"Neferuaat. That is a pretty name. Who gave it to you?"

"You really are being silly today," Neferuaat declared. "How could you forget my name? You gave it to me, telling me it was- Argos, come back here!"

The Gyrinx sprang from the child's arms and sprinted back up the stairs, claws tapping against the stone. Neferuaat took off after her pet, a flurry of violet and indigo robes, racing to catch the retreating feline. A Rubric Terminator entered the library, the automaton barrelling into the path of the child without stopping. Pathoth was about to shout a warning, the words stopped when he saw the child phase through the Rubric Terminator. She vanished, her form and the Gyrinx no more substantial than smoke.

"Lord Pathoth," the disembodied spirit in the armour rumbled. "Is something amiss?"

"No. The shadows in this place are merely playing tricks on my mind." Pathoth lowered his arm, unaware he had moved. Dismissing the Rubric Terminator with a wave of his hand, the Thousand Son ruminated at what he had born witness to.

A sending from a future point carved into stone, immutable and unchanging. Such things were rare, seldom happening in one's lifetime. In the course of his existence, Pathoth had been blessed to note five such missives, each leading to a higher plane of understanding. Storing the encounter away in his memory, the sorcerer returned to the bookshelf as if nothing had happened.

Whatever reason Ahriman had in coming to the Jollana Librarium, fate had chosen Pathoth to be present as well. At last, Primarch Magnus's words were beginning to make sense to Osis Pathoth.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**999.M41**

**Inno, Mizar subsector, ****Syntyche**** sector**

Years later scholars called it the Great Awakening.

The Warp's energies, turbulent and seeking a way out, ripped forth violently from the Immaterium. Crashing like a wave through the opened rift, the polluted energy spilled into physical space and across countless Imperial worlds and sectors. With its passing, the latent psychic potential of millions were unlocked and with it, a terrible destruction. It unleashed hell to millions more. The holds of the infamous Black Ships, already fit to burst, weighed heavy with the birthing of so many new psykers.

Inno, a farming world of no remark and operating within a feudal caste system, was such a world heavily affected. The planet revolved alone in the great silence of space, hanging on the edge of the Segmentum Obscurus, a world where proud lineages and noble histories dated back to the time of the Great Crusade. The Kith lineage, as reputable as any house, was decimated by the Great Awakening, their story a microcosm of tragedy against the backdrop of the greater whole, but one which echoed painfully nonetheless.

Amara and Katea were born on the same day.

Amara in the morning as the sun rose, Katea toward the evening, quiet where the other was loud. Their mothers were sisters, identical twins whose cursed story was well-known. A superstitious belief on Inno persisted; the offspring of twins were fated to a cruel existence where death and discord followed. In most instances, these unfortunate children were put to death. The Kith House, wealthy and influential, paid the midwives handsomely to hold their tongues of the births. The coffers of the Ecclesiarchy were filled; a new church constructed for the newborns baptized in the light of the God-Emperor.

Life, uneventful on Inno, continued without incident. This peace was an illusion, lost when the Warp's taint rippled over Inno's surface. Amara and Katea were six when their lives were changed forevermore.

Bells from the Ecclesiarchy churches rang, summoning the faithful to mass while unnatural lights from the Warp storm clashed in the sky overhead. As the tempest covered Inno, the pious prayed, hoping their words reached the God-Emperor. Inside the family chapel on the Kith estate, the family sat in hardback pews with bowed heads and rosaries wrapped around trembling fingers. Scores of candles lit the small building, running wax encrusting the candelabras, the air wavering in the heat. Plumes of incense rose from the marble altar, the smell pungent and heady, a concoction of cinnamon and myrrh. While Father Curasso, a man of portly built and face likened to a pig's, murmured a scriptural passage, Amara and Katea slipped out the servant's door. It was not difficult; their grandfather was asleep next to them.

"I want to see the lights," Amara declared, running the length of the courtyard to the servants' gate. Unlatching it, she waited until Katea passed before shuttering the wooden door behind them. Both giggled in childish amusement at disobeying their grandfather's strict orders to not leave the chapel, following the dirt and stone pathway down to the wheat fields.

"Father Curasso doesn't know what he's saying. I think the sky is pretty, not bad."

"We shouldn't go too far. Grandfather will cane us if he finds out." Ever the voice of reason and caution, Katea fastidiously smoothed down the ermine trim of her dress.

"I promise we'll return before Father Curasso's finished." Amara solemnly replied, crossing her fingers over her heart. Any child knew the importance such a gesture entailed. "I know the perfect place to see the lights."

Katea followed slowly, more intent on looking at the colourful borealis over the winding curve of the path. Her heavy skirts restricted her movements, and she gingerly raised the hem of her gown lest it get muddy. Amara, unmindful of the expensive dress she was dirtying, continued walking without a care. Overhead, vivid colours wove into each other, the sky a loom with an invisible weaver at work.

Katea tugged Amara's hair. "Tell the truth. You know what happens when you lie! The God-Emperor weeps and bleeds. We always get caught and then we get punished."

Grinning cheekily, Amara grabbed Katea's hand as green and blue lights mingled above them. "Promise, promise, promise," she singsonged, racing into the tall stalks.

Expansive wheat fields rippled in the warm breeze, colours burnt gold and bronze, stretching into the distance. An envy to the rival Houses and the pride of the Kith, the cropland was a rich source of income year after year. The Kith estate overlooked the vast tracts of land from the ridge it was built on, an ancient castle jealously guarding its territory. Crunching through the high stalks, ears of wheat tickling her face, Amara walked ahead confidently. Katea had no choice but to follow her adventurous cousin. She loathed being left behind. Even if she were to be punished, she wanted to be included as part the stories Amara told the other children. Their small forms hidden by the fields, Amara led them onwards, racing down hidden paths only she knew. After what seemed an eternity, Amara's cry of delight signalled their arrival.

"Here it is!"

Dropping Katea's hand, Amara excitedly rushed forward and broke free from the fields. She stood in a small clearing, where a towering boulder of granite sat in the center. Standing like a sentinel, its surface flecked with brown and gold, sides weathered from the seasons, the boulder was without remark. Its top was ground flat, offering a vantage point for anyone who managed to scale its rough side.

Amara was already climbing, hands gaining purchase in the small cracks and grooves she found on the rock's face. Crying out in annoyance, Katea joined her cousin in the climb, unwilling to stay on the ground. Throwing her leg over the top and skirts ripping in the process, Amara pulled herself over the edge. She stood with her hands on her hips.

"I won!" Her triumphant shout echoed weirdly in the discordant air. A reddish haze broke across the blue bowl of the sky, Amara framed against the violent colour. So bright was it her wispy blonde hair appeared drenched in blood. The sight made Katea gasp and, a horrible feeling entering her stomach, she refused to climb further.

"We should return to the chapel. Father Curraso's sermon is over."

"No." Grabbing Katea's wrist, Amara pulled her up until she stood beside her. "Look at the sky, Katea! This is better than staying in the chapel. Look at all the colours!"

Katea's eyes turned skywards at her cousin's insistence. A veritable kaleidoscope of colours and sparks danced and whirled on high, the flames of a fire leaping in brief and chaotic patterns until they were swallowed up by the whole. Magenta clashed against emerald green, overshadowed by a swath of garish orange, only to be embraced in a midnight blue and their existence snuffed. Each burst of colour was greeted with a clapping of hands or loud exclamations. To the innocent eyes of children, the display likened to the performance of travelling acrobats or a puppet show. Simple entertainment which left smiles on their naïve faces. No sinister undercurrent was seen, and nothing horrid the adults whispered about the storms raging in the heavens.

Both held their tongues when the faces appeared, each believing the other did not see them. Twisted countenances grinned maniacally down at them or glared in cold fury. A few were frozen in heart-wrenching sobs. All drifted back into the flashing lights, insubstantial wisps of smoke.

Katea's eyes slid away from the glowing lights, catching movement in the wheat fields. From her vantage point, the little girl saw tall figures stalking through the cropland, garbed in the livery of an unknown House. They moved as shadows, seven in all, attempting to hide themselves, unaware their presence was noted. Katea reacted by dropping on to the flat top of the boulder, dragging Amara down with her.

"What the-"

"Strangers." Katea pointed at the unknown men. They wore light black armour edged in red. "Invaders on grandfather's land."

Amara would have thrown a rock and shouted for them to leave, at first. Her action halted when she spied the lasrifles the men carried. Their faces were cold and merciless, with the intent to cause harm radiating from them. Sweeping the barrels of their lasrifles to and fro in the waving stalks, it was obvious the men were hunting. Perhaps to catch a serf in the fields, a vassal of the estate to ransom or a corpse to leave behind for provocation.

Neither of the girls wanted to be in the fields now. Thoughts of sanctuary behind thick stone walls, protected inside the family chapel, held a glamour which dulled the majesty of the borealis. Their small adventure had come to an end as a harsh reality descended.

Nudging Katea's arm, Amara motioned for her cousin to climb down. "We can run back to the house and warn grandfather."

Katea shook her head, blue eyes wide in fear and heart fluttering like a caged bird. The boulder was a safe haven, the fields a labyrinth where they could become lost. Hunted to their deaths. To leave the only shelter they possessed was madness. Scowling in anger at the cowardice of her cousin, Amara clambered over Katea and began her descent. Once on the ground, she gestured hurriedly for Katea to follow. Moving awkwardly in her cumbersome skirts, Katea started climbing down when, as a clash of forked lighting burst overhead, she was seen.

"Take your mark! Death to the Kith House!" The leader of the men bellowed across the wheat fields. Sharp pangs of fear charged the girls' bodies as they stood in terror.

Lasfire streaked the air, the stench of burnt ozone following. The boulder's aged surface was scored black as lasrifles targeted the children. A flash of deadly silver light burnt the hem of Katea's dress. She screamed, tumbling heavily to the ground where she did not rise and her vision burst with stars. Hysteria gave Amara's tiny body strength. Grabbing Katea by her wrists, she dragged the girl into the yellow stalks to hide. The hunters moved quickly to the boulder. Finding no one, they spread out and began to search.

Katea's wits were slow in returning. Images faded in and out of focus, her head throbbed, and her bruised body protesting with each movement. Someone was speaking to her, murmuring just beyond the point where syllables became words. Raising a hand to wave the voice aside, Amara grabbed Katea's arm. When she tried to protest, Amara shushed Katea, whispering "We can hide in the fields. I know the way back. I promise."

It became a mad chase to stay ahead of their pursuers, never certain if a lasbolt would catch them in the back. Katea's eyes rolled back into her skull. Minutes became moments, hours stretched into years. She lost sense of where they were going; many times her mind blanked. Who was she? What did it matter if she would soon be dead? The quiet voice grew louder as another chimed in, posing more questions. Running deeper into the fields, Katea's sweaty hand clasped in Amara's, she let her cousin lead while her eyesight filled with pin-pricks of light.

Amara refused to believe they were lost. But the further she pressed, each direction looked as similar as the next, a sea of amber with no discernible features. Disoriented, unsure where the family estate lay, a cold dread crept into the girl's chest. Her throat tightened. Amara forced her terror into the recesses of her mind, balling hands into fists.

She wiped away the tears and sweat on her face. She refused to cry. She was the elder, she had convinced Katea to come with her to see the lights, and she had gotten them lost. It was her duty to bring them safely home.

Harsh shouts from the men came from all directions. A raucous yell, the crack of a lasbolt whining close by sent Amara jumping, pushing Katea back from the danger. Spotting the retreating forms of the children in the high wheat, one of the assailants signalled the others. The chase ended with the terrified quarry circled. Several barrels pointed at the childrens' heads, fingers on hair-triggers. The leader of the unknown House faction chuckled.

"We're sent to raise a little hell against the Kiths and what do we find? Stumble right across their little whelps. We'll claim a higher fee after we've scalp these two and brought back the evidence."

His words unbound the fear Katea held. The voices crowed their rage, clamouring for Katea to do something. A nameless pressure had built inside her since tumbling from the boulder. Now it restricted her breathing as it rose through her small body. Katea heaved against the pain it brought. Her eyes watered, those wretched stars continually bursting in front of her. She wanted to claw at her eyes, her skin, her very hair. She needed to set it free. She had to or be crushed by it.

The lasrifles were raised, an ominous sound of metal clicking together.

Huddled in the dirt and broken wheat, Amara's arms wrapped about Katea's shivering form. She whispered a prayer to the God-Emperor, but her words did not reach Katea. Thunderous voices filled the child's ears, shouting at her. They screeched for attention, demanding the young girl listen to all of them. There was so much for her to know, to be made aware of; they could help her. Colour rippled behind Katea's eyelids.

"Leave us alone!" Katea screamed, her voice adding to the millions echoing madly in her mind.

Amara was never certain of what she saw that day.

She remembered the sheet of flames, unnatural in their icy colour, and the chill emanated as the fire immolated the men. The flames ravenously ate the flesh of the men, gnawed on their bones until charred husks remained. Mouths opened in screams brought the fire rushing into their bodies. Painful, soul-wrenching screams came from blackened throats to end in harsh gurgles. One of the hunters tried to run, with his legs buckling under him before he had travelled three paces. Another ran flailing into the fields before collapsing. Blackened corpses twisted beyond recognition were all that remained.

The wicked fire leapt from the would-be murderers and into the fields with horrid speed. Everything touched was consumed by its monstrous appetite.

Katea floated in the center of the azure flames, her long blonde hair whipping about in a silent wind. Dancing a hand's breadth above the ground with her head craned painfully back, blinding light poured from her eyes and flitted about her head. Without thinking, Amara lunged for her cousin. A current of power crashed into her as she touched Katea, making Amara feel nauseous. Yet the jolt was enough. Katea fell back to the earth as a dead weight atop of Amara.

"Katea!" Her cousin's eyes were shut tightly, sickening light flickering behind closed lids.

"My eyes burn! Help me!"

Katea's pained wails rose over the crackling flames and oily black smoke. Outstretched arms fumbled until they touched Amara's. Amara held Katea in a death-grip, helping her cousin stand. She began to run with Katea stumbled behind, racing from the fires and the carnage left behind them. The wind rushed overhead, the stalks seeming to part before Amara. Everything was moving quickly, faster and faster until her feet no longer touched the ground and the landscape became a blur. She knew the way now, she _knew _where to go.

The estate's bells were ringing. Seeing the smoke rising from the fields, the serfs had issued the warning to mobilize aide. Amara followed the sound, the peal of the bells beautiful and discordant all at once. She gasped in relief when she burst out of the maze with Katea, thankful to be free of what nearly became their tomb.

Vassals were running with servitors into the fields, heavy equipment loaded onto pile-beds to douse the flames. In the middle of the frantic efforts, directing every action with force, was Beslan Kith. Not yet a century old and with the vigour of youth still about him, the patriarch of the Kith House was never idle. Dressed in his finery from the chapel with only his wig askance, Beslan Kith hurried to his granddaughters huddling on the edge of the fields. Following him were his twin daughters.

Amara's breath hitched in her throat at seeing her grandfather. She would endure whatever punishment he meted out, so long as Katea was taken care of. She stumbled forward with a smile on cracked lips. "Mother, help-"

"Witches!" Father Curasso's voice lashed the air. The priest pushed through the swirling crowd of servants, scarlet robes matching the hue of his puffing face. He jabbed a meaty finger at the children. "Lord Kith, look to the tainted spawn and see what has become of your House! They are the ill-cause of the fire and storms!"

Amara shrank back from the priest's accusation, not understanding why her mother and aunt began to cry. Father Curasso grabbed Beslan before he touched his granddaughters, swatting the patriarch away. Behind Amara, Katea toppled into the dirt, the last of her strength finally spent. Turning her back on the growing crowd to tend to Katea, Amara heard the hateful words grow in strength.

"Stay back from them," the priest roared authoritatively. "The taint of the witch lays heavy on them! Stand back lest their pollution destroy the rest of us!"

Father Curasso's voice stopped the Kith family from touching their children. Amara's hair floated in a halo framing her face, but she was beyond noticing. She cradled her cousin's head in her lap, covering Katea's glowing eyes with soot-blackened hands and crying. What was happening? Why was nobody helping?

Above them, the colours in the sky continued to mix and tumble in a wild dance.

"Mother," Amara screamed out, "Katea's eyes are burning. Help her!"

"Pollution has entered the Kith lineage. We must purge them!" Father Curasso's heavy bulk filled Amara's eyes. He stared down with unmasked hatred at her. Fumbling for the gold aquila tied to his waist, the priest drew it forth. "Suffer not the witches to live. Do not shirk, do not falter. Give them the God-Emperor's justice!"

"You're absurd," Beslan sputtered. "My family line is pure, corruption does not dirty these blue veins. We stand as pure as any Terran." Beslan Kith knelt to hold Katea. Curasso hauled the man to his feet, throwing him back with a force only the pious or insane held.

"My Lord Kith, do not touch their stained bodies. They are no longer kin. They are abominations. Is it not written _'Love the Emperor and follow His words, for they alone will save Mankind'_? And has not the Emperor decreed the taint of the witch be sought out and purged wherever it is found?" Curasso's words hooked the heart of the patriarch. "We cannot allow ourselves to hide behind the title of family. Humanity itself is a family, and to guard the many we must destroy the few who would destroy us."

The proud man humbled, Beslan nodded. "What do we do, Father?" Next to Beslan, his daughters sobbed for the future awaiting their children.

Curasso made the sign of the aquila. Those closest to the priest followed his example with heads bowed. "The witches shall be taken to the capital of Inno. The Astropathic Choir will summon the Black Ships once these unholy storms past. The names of these children are to be stricken from the family records, their existence denied, and the House of Kith must undergo tests of purity." His eyes slid meaningfully to the mothers, mindful of the curse twins carried for all.

"I will fetch the Arbites," Beslan murmured. "They will deal with this matter."

He left his fields to burn and ignored the wails of his daughters, striding quickly away. Beslan's mind was set, the course would not be altered, and he would accept the punishments given to his House. Behind him, the _things _once called his grandchildren screamed.

"Mother," Katea's cries were piteous. "Mother! My eyes, they burn!"

"Help her! Help-" Amara's cry was cut short as a family retainer struck her in the head with the butt of an antique rifle. She slumped to the ground unconscious, Katea screaming as she sensed the rifle butt careening down upon her.

Mercifully, the swirl of colours ended and there was only blackness.

* * *

The _Khermuti_ waited in the eye of the Warp storm, untouched by the powerful tides which roiled and seethed beyond its sapphire and golden hull. Ghosting alongside the starboard of the Acheron-class battle cruiser was the _Meskhenet_. Both vessels, centuries old and bristling with armament, fell under the command of Ahriman, even as the latter belonged to Pathoth. Having translated into the Mizar subsector with no issues, the exiled Thousand Sons awaited new orders. While the sinister currents of the Warp covered the surface of Inno, those who came to the planet with a darker purpose planned. In Ahriman's staterooms, the grand sorcerer stood before the scroll plundered from Jollana Librarium. Unfurled across the marble table, the parchment's surface was covered by a multitude of arcane symbols and near incomprehensible writing.

Acting in accordance with the signs the scroll gave, retrieving the psykers whose names appeared, the potential future was unlocked. It was fragmentary work at best. Decades past from one revelation to the next, the time between difficult. Yet now Ahriman had reached his final destination. After Inno's name, the script concluded. No conjuring would bring forth more. No planets or names revealed themselves, the future murky. Ahriman held a mixture of trepidation and exhilaration in himself, knowing a momentous truth would be exposed. Another part of the cosmic puzzle, his to unlock and take once he held the key.

It was finding the key which proved troublesome. Ahriman's concentration was broken when Pathoth spoke.

"What is more fickle, the changing Immaterium or the faith of humanity in their corpse Emperor? I desire this new riddle of mine to spark fierce debates. Even amongst the Word Bearers if possible, for if I can speak with one of their dark chaplains, I believe my logic will supersede his."

Ahriman turned from the scroll to Pathoth's sonorous voice. The vizier gazed out the stain glass porthole into the Immaterium beyond, and Ahriman controlled his rising choler. How like the sorcerer to be concerned with petty trivialities when something grander was afoot. Drumming his fingers against his black staff, Ahriman subdued his emotions with a calming incantation.

"Do as you wish. Dare not bring your riddles or conundrums into conversation when I am in the same room as those fanatics." A pause. "What do you see out in the currents of the Great Ocean that demands your attention?"

Pathoth shrugged, the gesture theatrical. "The damned and lost souls. Fate spinning us onwards. The final step in the writings of the scroll." He smiled cynically. "An underpopulated planet where the people have no idea who is watching them from on high. The storms are a sign from Tzeentch that which you seek is here."

Each tolerated the presence of the other without open hostility, but it was an uneasy truce. Pathoth kept himself and his own to the _Meskhenet _unless his presence was required by Ahriman. His advice, while not often sought, was well-situated when needed.

"You failed to mention one thing of critical importance, Osis."

"I have? Pray tell, what has my precognition failed to warn of?"

Ahriman directed Pathoth's attention to a data-slate recently brought, lying next to the Jollana scroll. Scanning through the contents, the vizier's face remained impassive as he read.

"The Black Ships approach. It is a singular annoyance to know they will translate in system just as we descend to Inno." Ahriman's voice was clipped; he turned back to the scroll and consulted the information. "Time is running out. I need to discern this psyker's bearings before the Black Ships come to claim them."

Pathoth moved to stand across the table, looking at the scroll upside-down with a bemused smile. "Can you find the mortal and escape before the Imperium's arrival? That is the true question. I would hate to lose my vessel to the Black Ships."

Ahriman scoffed, "Nothing is hidden from my eyes." He spoke with a conviction born of past experiences, of the impossible being but a word. Words shimmered on the vellum and changed. Ahriman traced his forefinger in a complex symbol over the words, and they twisted once more, reforming. The key, hidden inside itself, was unmasked and the bearings of the final psyker were displayed.

"Who will you take to the surface?"

"My inner coven, those beyond the fourth tier. A small force, for this strike will require speed. A Thunderhawk will transport us to the holding cells placed in the capital. Undoubtedly, Imperial Arbites are defending the prison, many who have never seen Astartes. They will cause little trouble. You will take brief command of the vessels." Ahriman disliked the sudden gleam in Pathoth's eyes. "Should the Black Ships appear, I trust you know how to engage a space battle."

The vizier laughed. "I have witnessed my fair share. The single battleship which protects this backwater world is unlikely to find us. We are too well hidden by the Warp storm to appear on its auspex, and should we encounter it, their eyes will see the void soon enough."

"Just ensure the Black Ships do not block our escape."

"Do you believe this task will succeed? We skirt the edge of danger."

"Victory will come from this," Ahriman replied. "I was meant to go to Inno, just as I was destined to take the scroll from Jollana. I will return with the psyker and fate will show the next step to be taken."

* * *

She woke on a stone floor, cold and uncomfortable and terrified. Her head felt heavy. To move too much brought waves of pain. Dried blood coated Amara Kith's left cheek, having patterned down from her forehead where the rifle had struck. Slowly, her eyes focused and the girl took in her surroundings. Lumen globes shed weak light against the stone walls which loomed overhead, the ceiling wreathed in shadows. No windows offered a clue to where she was, nor gave any fresh air in the stagnant room. The single door of black metal rising up before her was firmly shut, an embossed death's head grinning spitefully across the space.

Amara tried to rise on weak legs, the sensation of pins and needles acutely felt in each hesitant step. A surging pain throbbed against her skull, reminding her of the injury done. Collapsing to the floor, knees cracking against the stone, Amara cried out. Through the hazy pain she noticed the bindings on her; a psy-collar fitted around her neck and cuffs locked her wrists together. The collar emitted soft beeps, a green light winking as the machine spirit diligently suppressed Amara's psychic talent. When she became aware of the sensation, or lack thereof, it halted her tears.

Out in the fields she had felt invincible. Nothing could touch her, the landscape was hers to travel at a whim in the briefest of moments. With the psy-collar locked around her throat, the dog chained to be obedient, everything was now flipped. Colours were muted, the presence of loud sounds dulled to echoes barely registered, and the physical pain amplified more than her body could bear. Yet for how her 'witching' powers manifested, it was nothing compared to Katea's. She had burned those men alive, lifting off the ground as though ready to ascend into the realm of the God-Emperor with her eyes blazing.

"Katea," Amara whispered frantically, whipping her head about to find her. Pain lashed against her skull without remorse.

The other child was in the cell. Unconscious and similarly bound as her cousin, further precautions were taken with the girl who had mercilessly immolated several men. Katea's head was covered with a dampening hood, only leaving the lower part of her face exposed. Crawling over to Katea, Amara nudged the girl on the shoulder. Katea stirred, mouth drawing back into a grimace.

Amara wondered if she felt sickened and muted with the psy-collar in place, what did Katea feel?

"It's okay," Amara whispered. A lie, a damned lie. "I think we are somewhere-"

"Not home." Katea's voice rasped from a dry throat. "Where are we?"

"I don't know." Admitting made Amara feel powerless. A shudder of fear wracked her body.

"I don't feel good. My head hurts. I feel sick, as though I ate a bad piece of sweetmeat." A light sheen of sweat covered Katea's pale skin. She pushed herself to her knees, each movement awkward and encumbering without the girl having her sight. "Did grandfather abandon us? He won't come and save us?"

Hot tears pricked at the corners of Amara's eyes. Katea's words exposed a harsh, cold truth. The awful realisation that no one was coming to save them, family abandoning two children in an unknown cell, and not a single soul caring was too much for Amara Kith. If Katea could see, she would have watched the blood drain from Amara's face, her mouth forming a wordless scream. Amara's mind lurched with hands gripping at the edge of the deep ravine, desperately scrabbling for purchase. To plummet into the dark gully below meant madness, an end to everything, leaving Katea alone to fend for herself.

Amara's mind scape titled one way, twisted another until it balanced. She dragged herself up from the pit with the sole foothold she still had.

"I'll protect you, Katea." Simple words, innocent words, childish words. Amara would protect Katea. She was the elder of the two. The responsibility fell to her. However their lives would end – and Amara felt it would not be far off – she could keep that promise.

"Do you swear this time? You're not making it up?"

Amara bumped her chained hands against Katea's, patting her sweaty skin. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Without sight, Katea relied on sound to deduce the truth. Amara would hold to those words. She never heard a waver in the girl's voice. Convinced, Katea curled up next to her cousin, attempting to ignore the way her stomach churned. Silence descended, broken from time to time by the distant sounds of boots or the whine of long-slumbering engines brought to life. Amara was jolted from her thoughts when Katea spoke.

"Will we be taken to the stars?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Ships are coming. Big ships to take us away. Father Curasso-"

Metal banged against metal outside the cell. Footsteps were heard, the lock holding the black door shut released with a deafening clang. The door slid open to allow two Arbites entry, faces hidden behind reflective helmets and weapons trained on the children. Behind them, a tall man dressed in the voluminous white robe of an apothecary entered, a medicae kit carried in gloved hands. Just like the Arbites, his face was concealed in a heavy hood, a shadowy face with no smile and no frown.

"We can't have you both awake now. It isn't time yet to move you." His quiet voice resonated in the cell, sounding too warm and fatherly from a figure whose face was hidden. "This should help you sleep for a time." Opening the kit he retrieved two vials of clear liquid, fitting them into a metal syringe. Amara backed away from the man, trying to hide Katea behind her.

"I-"

One of the Arbites cocked his rifle. "Speak again and you'll be without a head."

Katea whimpered in fear at the sound of the weapon racking. Amara closed her mouth, biting her tongue. The apothecary approached Katea first, sliding the hypodermic needle into the base of her neck and injecting the clear liquid in one smooth motion. She never made a sound, slumping forward as the sedative took effect. Amara wanted to struggle, to kick at the guards and gnaw the hand of this so-called healer and as his hand descended on her shoulder, she shivered at the touch.

"There now child," he spoke with false commiseration, "you will sleep. When you wake again, everything will change for the better."

Amara wondered for whose betterment it was. The throbbing of her head diminished, the world growing dim around her. She never heard the cell door close, metal shrieking against metal, already lost to consciousness.

* * *

Ulsan. The capital city of Inno – indeed, the only true city on the planet – was a sprawling warren of streets, back alleys, and prefabricated houses which had seen better days. The heart of Inno from which the arteries extended to the provincial towns, Ulsan did little to dominate the landscape. Only three buildings appeared to fight against the overwhelming vastness; the Ecclesiarchy cathedral, the Governor's palace, and the Arbites ziggurat. The last struck fear into the minds and souls of the populace with its imposing presence and bristling armaments.

Inno's most heavily fortified structure, it held the imprisoned psykers who waited for the Black Ships. Rising over a mile into the sky with dungeons plunging just as deep, the grey monolith was a shadow set against the darker night scape. No one could approach the Arbites causeway leading into the compound without a hundred turrets tracking each movement. It was foolishness to assault the ziggurat, a madman's plan doomed from the start. Nothing would survive the cross-fire barrage of heavy shells or deadly lasfire. Should someone try to escape, their retreat would be blocked by adamantium blast doors.

A pity the military architect never gave thought to an airborne strike.

Moving in two-man units, Arbites walked the night patrols. They strode with the confidence of being on just another patrol, walking the same path across the plasteel and concrete ramparts. The ziggurat was secure, and come the morrow the Black Ships would arrive and relieve the Arbites of their heavy duty. Two Arbites deep in conversation kept their eyes away from the dark heavens and the waning storms above.

"What happens to the witches? I thought we'd get to kill them. Better off for everyone, and easier on our resources. Too dangerous to keep them here until the- what're they called again?"

"Black Ships."

"Yeah, until the ships come to take them away. Imagine the security risk we have with so many witches beneath us." An image of milling psykers who could read minds or kill with a thought under his feet caused the Arbites to squirm.

His friend snorted in laughter. "The last thing we do is execute them. About security threats, each cell in the lower levels – you've been there, but you're too dumb to notice it. Anyway, each chamber holds a psy-dampener generator. It reacts to the bonds the psykers are placed in, stops them from using whatever witchcraft they try."

"How well do those psy-dampeners work?"

"Works really well from what I've heard. Least that's what the cog-boys say when they go to check the machines. Anyone who has a smidgen of the Emperor's un-blessing won't be able to use their tricks, no matter who or what they are."

"And if the generators fail?" The uncomfortable stretch of silence did little to support the guard's fear.

The man replied, "God-Emperor damn us all, I guess. But these people get tested by the Black Ships. I know armoured shuttles come to bring the witches to the holds. After that, it's no longer our problem. We get paid, the monsters leave Inno alone, and I can go home to my wife and a good meal."

The night watch stillness was broken by a thunderous shriek of engines. Descending from the upper atmosphere and its storms, a sleek craft caught the Arbites attention. One man pointed, in itself a useless gesture. Everyone could see it from the ziggurat walls and the speed it approached with. Even, one could say, the singular intent it was designed for.

"Speak of the devil. Do you think it's one of the crafts now?"

"Looks like it. Sleek, fast, what you'd expect for those Inquisitors. They always get the best of everything. Thunderhawk-pattern, I reckon, which means we might see the fabled Astartes."

"Astartes, here?"

"Maybe. Some Inquisitors have them on the Black Ships. Though," the Arbites guard pursed scarred lips. "Usually we receive shuttle notification in advance."

Banking left around the Arbites ziggurat and firing its retro-thrusters, the Thunderhawk's speed cut sharply. Its nose angled upwards, the craft came to land on the top of the compound. Already a captain was striding briskly out from the blast door, his group of officers following. No doubt everyone was thankful the collection team had come. Eyes from the ramparts looked in apprehension to see who would disembark. An Inquisitor, the captain of the Black Ships, perhaps a Space Marine.

The Thunderhawk's ramp dropped without ceremony. An armoured figure, majestic and terrible, strode from the vessel. Each human registered the image; monstrous in height and build, the presence radiating from the warrior placed awe into their hearts. Extending his gloved hand in greeting, the captain's words were overturned as a bolt round split his head open like an overripe melon.

Pandemonium descended. Arbites covering the walls yelled orders to raise the alarm, the vox-comm crackled to life as, on the compound's tarmac, the men began firing against the new arrivals. No time to think, only to act, and even the resistance given was not enough. Confusion intensified into outright fear as figures of legend followed the first down the ramp, knocking down mortals too slow to move. Bolt rounds pinged against ceramite armour, lasfire twisted away from its intended targets. Retaliation from the enemy came as lightning hurled from outstretched hands or the bark of bolters.

Ahriman's staff flared with Warp fire, creating human infernos from would-be challengers. Very quickly, the compound was quiet with the tattered corpses of Arbites strewn across the cold tarmac.

"Keep the area secured," he ordered to the Rubric Marines he had brought. "We have limited time to collect what I require."

Signalling two of his coven, Ibhar and Noph, to come with him, Ahriman entered the Arbites ziggurat and the maze of halls within. Stepping inside the monolith confirmed his suspicions of psy-dampeners placed throughout the massive complex. The divestment of his powers became a lead cloak wrapping over him, draining his talents. Locating one of the psy-dampeners generators close by, Ahriman's bolt pistol made short work of the arcane device.

His powers flickered too and fro, the weight of the cloak temporarily retreated. No doubt the sorcerer-adepts with him felt the same. For every generator the Thousand Sons came across in the vaulted halls, the machine became a blasted heap of metal. The archaic machines could not drown out everything. Ahriman sensed, between the flareups of his powers, the presence of the psyker he had come for. Out of the hundreds in their cells below, hidden under the multitude of floors, the single psyker's raw talent burned bright.

"Like a lumen next to candles," Noph muttered, swinging his power sword in one hand, cutting down a group of Arbites who attempted to ambush them. "I would almost want to see the disappointment in the Imperial lapdogs faces when we take this one from them."

Coming to the first bank of elevators, Ahriman chose a lift to take them down. Going as far as the first lift could, the Thousand Sons continued to move from one elevator to the next, penetrating deeper into the ziggurat. No map was needed. Ahriman let the pull of destiny guide his armour shod feet.

Foolish or brave Arbites created cordons to stop the Chaos marines; brute strength from the warlocks replaced dark spells. Bodies crumpled under ceramite gauntlets splashed red. Ibhar and Noph preceded Ahriman to protect their lord's passage. In moments where Ahriman's powers flared and psy-dampeners were destroyed, he sent shrieking bolts of lightning down metal corridors to coldly murder Imperial lackeys.

From the cells, voices of those who knew they were damned pleaded for their deaths. Or salvation. It was difficult to filter the swelling cries of each person, voices overcoming the next until it they became an indistinguishable mass of humanity crying as one. Hands pounded against the steel walls until the flesh was bruised and bloodied, but the Chaos marines did not stop.

"Should we release them, if only to cause confusion for the guards?" Ibhar glanced at the cell blocks strung with purity seals and holy vials.

"Does a librarian settle for a tome of minor importance when he can take what's the most rare? We have enough sacrificial slaves as it is. Leave these beings." Ahriman took no untalented whelps under his tutelage.

A central lift brought them downwards, rushing through a tunnel of pitch black amid the shriek of alarm klaxons. The sub-levels were reached, where the most dangerous psykers were kept. Enslaved.

Motioning for Ibhar and Noph to halt at the lift and their only means of escape, Ahriman proceeded alone. He found the psy-dampener generator not far from the elevator lift, making short work of it as he had the others. The lead weight dragging the sorcerer down lifted substantially, returning with it a wave of psychic ability.

Stone corridors where protective runes were carved into the black surface made his skin crawl. Faceless black doors held the most deadly, the most insane, the most gifted of humankind behind their heavy locks. Ahriman's blood pulsed against the holy words bathed in the light of lumen stripes. Here, in the furthest recesses of the Arbites hold, a torrent of flames housed in a weak corporeal form waited.

Ahriman came upon the cell, the door breaking under a touch from his staff. Pushing the door aside, Ahriman found two girl children in the cell. Huddled in the far corner, their young minds did not understand who was standing before them or what was happening in the ziggurat above. Ahriman saw their potentials at once, surprised by their divergence. Where one could hope to delve into the mysteries of the universe, the other might wish to read the minds of others. He saw the grand future of one tied into his own and the short thread of the other.

"Go away!" It was the unhooded girl who screamed. Waving her bound hands at the towering figure, she clumsily made the sign of the aquila. "Leave us alone!"

Crossing the chamber in three strides, Ahriman knocked aside the child who played at being a hero. He easily lifted the other, hooded and passive. Blinded from truth. At the unknown contact she began to scream and kick out. The empathic build-up of stress from the child washed over the room, throwing the space of the chamber to a place _between _for a handful of moments. Even with the psy-collar and dampening hood in place, the feat was noted by Ahriman.

"Amara, help me! Don't let them take me!"

Channelling a measure of phlegmatic into the girl's aura did little good, the psy-bindings flaring against the intrusion. Mentally reprimanding himself for coming under prepared and without sedatives, Ahriman turned on his heel to leave. His exit was barred by the other girl child.

"Give me back my cousin! You have no-"

Whipping the end of his staff about, Ahriman's blow sent the girl careening into the far wall. Baleful eyes stared down at the child's tiny frame. "I will leave you to your own ends, as short as they are."

Shrieking child under his arm, Ahriman left the cell. Thrashing in the unknown grip, the girl screamed again and again, each wail ringing against the sorcerer's helm. The air bubbled and compressed once more. Above them, lumen stripes crackled and shattered, their glass raining down to cut the psyker child's exposed skin. Sparks ignited into flames, which rushed down the dark halls to scorch whatever was found. Matted locks of the girl's long hair caught alight, adding further to her terror.

"Curse you!" Ahriman shouted over the gale of fire. He batted at the flames, snuffing them, not wanting the prize to end up a charred corpse.

Rejoining his cohorts, the Thousand Sons ascended the lift. In their wake they left a scene of mayhem, the klaxon howling after them. The weight of the psy-dampeners dropped away and once on the rooftop of the Arbites ziggurat, it felt as Ahriman were taking a breath of fresh air for the first time. Still wriggling in his grasp, the child screamed her voice hoarse. Ahriman could not effectively quell the girl's outbursts without removing the shackles holding her powers in place, and he would not risk it.

He handed the child off to one of the coven as easily as passing a doll from one massive hand to the next.

"We leave!"

Rising over the Arbites compound and the sleeping city of Ulsan, the pilots put the engines into a full burn. Punching through the atmosphere and the gravity well of Inno, those strapped into their harnesses still felt the relentless pull. It was a testament to the Thousand Sons fleeing a world slated for the Black Ships.

"Lord Ahriman." The pilot's voice crackled over the vox.

"Report." Ahriman gripped the webbing of his harness, buffeted from side to side with the shaking of the Thunderhawk.

"The _Khermuti_ reports of ships translating in system. They estimate seventy minutes until the Imperial vessels reach our position. We also received confirmation of the Imperial battleship defending Inno. It has found us."

"When did- Nevermind! Send a communique to the bridge of the _Khermuti_. They will wait for us, they will wait."

And then, having to outrun the Imperium's Black Ships.

* * *

Red lights bathed the command deck of the _Khermuti_, warning of ships translating at the edge of the system. Linked via the hololithic display, Pathoth saw the same red colour the deck of his grand cruiser. His crew's actions mirrored those on the other bridge; adepts running to relay commands, firing batteries primed, waiting for the inevitable and costly engagement.

From the inbound Imperial forces there were picket ships, fast cruisers and escorts having their engineers run the drives red-hot to make it to Inno. Behind them, the battle fortresses of the Black Ships, commanding firepower which could pulverize even the _Meskhenet_, cleared their Warp jump point. Compounding this unfortunate information and driving anxiety high, the original single vessel thought to protect Inno was confirmed to be a Gothic-class cruiser.

With the Warp storms dissipating the Gothic-class cruiser had found the Chaos interlopers, manoeuvring to engage the hostiles in Imperial territory. Hanging in the void and dangling between two approaching forces, the _Khermuti_ and _Meskhenet_ waited. The option of a retreat had been stripped from Pathoth's hands until Ahriman returned. Pathoth's left eye twitched imperceptibly as he tracked the Imperial cruiser across the auspex screen. It would soon cross Inno's terminator line and be in prime firing range against the Chaos ships. The sorcerer could only imagine the damage the forward batteries would wreck against his vessel.

"What are your orders?" Bethos' calculating eyes looked at the vizier.

"How long until Ahriman returns to the _Khermuti_?"

"Precisely seventeen minutes, fifty-two seconds."

"How much time until Imperial forces engage us?"

"The Gothic cruiser will be upon us in less than twenty minutes, another fifty with the Black Ships and their trailing pack." Keeping the worry from his voice proved an effort, yet a slight tremor betrayed Bethos.

Pathoth considered, furtively scrying the future. Muddied aether greeted him and his senses, leaving Pathoth unable to untangle the most accurate path. Not that he would rely on potential futures and disregard logic, but knowing what could be always helped. Running outbound to gain the necessary distance for a Warp jump would leave their broadsides and backs exposed. Having to face an enemy on both sides was an unwilling and costly manoeuvre which could end in the damage of either spacecraft. Either option presented losses Pathoth was not willing to risk. A whisper drifted across his mind.

Another path was open to the dedicated followers of the Great Manipulator.

"We create a gateway. It is the most readily available option." Bethos blanched at Pathoth's words. A few of the magi-adepts shifted nervously. Osis Pathoth gestured for Mhkai to approach.

"Haste is required to leave this system. Mhkai," Pathoth directed the second-tiered mage. "Prepare the coven. I require the sacrificial fires lit and my sorcerers to stand ready. The Great Ocean will need to be drawn and parted for this endeavour."

Bethos interjected, "Vizier, we can run to the edge of the system. Creating a gateway will cause-"

"Dare you to counterman my decision?" Pathoth turned against the fourth-tiered sorcerer, his voice laced with contempt. His will beat against Bethos, pulling him down. "Sacrifice a hundred slaves to the fires, a thousand! I care not! A gateway will be opened. The _Meskhenet _will precede the _Khermuti_ once we confirm the Thunderhawk with the psyker is safely on board."

Creating a gateway rent from the fabric of space required time and finesse, neither which Pathoth could give. Keying his vox-channel to the command bridge, Pathoth led his coven into the upper chambers to begin the ritual. The very state of unpreparedness smacked against the vizier's precision. Ceremonial candles were lit and from the oily smoke, Pathoth drew invisible sigils in the air. The first death-screams of the slaves reverberated through the corrupted halls. Pooling their talents into the deep well of Pathoth's abilities, the coven latched on to the souls of the slaves to be used as fuel.

Projecting his astral form above the _Khermuti_, body quaking with the mental effort, Pathoth raised limbs that were and were not his to the void. Stars vanished and reformed in the haze of the dying Warp storm, the eddies and whorls battering against Pathoth's concentration. A mere slip of thought and he would be dashed against the shoals of the Immaterium. Visualizing a great chasm opening before the ships, a tear in reality to the realms beyond, the vizier poised. Unencumbered by mortal flesh, he could sense the foreboding Black Ships approach, the Gothic-class cruiser rearing to strike, a Thunderhawk sweeping under the belly of the _Khermuti _and to asylum...

"We confirm Lord Ahriman's Thunderhawk has docked in arming bay 38-N."

Pathoth waited no longer. Plunging psychic hands into the dirty aether surrounding the vessels, reaching through the weakening Warp storm to grasp imperceptible threads, he tore the fabric of space. Fuelled by the sacrifices and supported by his cabal's mental exertions, the vizier created a howling gateway in the vacuum of space. Lighting arced over the metal hulls and into the void, unearthly shrieks gibbering in a soundless blackness. The _Meskhenet_ dove through the hastily constructed rift first, its engines flaring to life. Close on its heels the _Khermuti_ followed.

Ripped back into his enhanced physique coughing blood, Osis Pathoth collapsed, spent. Sweat coated his face as both his hearts beat out of tandem, struggling to find a normal rhythm. The members of his circle fared little better, one sorcerer-adept flailing about as mutation broke over his body. A small sacrifice, all silently considered, for the greater plan.

"Pathoth to Lord Ahriman. Have you the psyker?"

A howling scream cut across the channel. Sounds of men shouting were drowned out by Ahriman.

"As I told you, Pathoth, my victory was assured from the beginning. Where are you sending us tumbling through the Warp to?"

Crashing sounds drowned out Pathoth's answer. Pattering across the floor of the ritual chamber, a mutated familiar informed the vizier his presence was required at once in arming bay 38-N. His well-situated advice was obviously required.

As quickly as they had come, Ahriman's forces departed having claimed their prize. The future wove on and on, a contorted path Ahriman walked without knowing what lay at the end, but prepared for whatever waited for him.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**999.M41**

**Inno, Mizar subsector, ****Syntyche**** sector**

"I swear before the Golden Throne and all the saints, it was Astartes who massacred the men! We tried to halt them but there were too many! Good Arbites, lawful men who'd never back down from a fight were burnt by fire and lightning. You'll know I speak the truth after your agents have viewed the security feeds. They weren't tampered with, I swear it!"

He was babbling, raving like a madman. Eager to refute his incompetence, a heavy weight made all the worse by the arrival of the Black Ships, the commander could not stop. He winced involuntary at the new arrival's voice. It was the sound of judgement being passed.

"Pray I do find the truth aligned with your version of the events. Nothing is hidden from the righteous servant. The tithe from Inno will be light this time, and I hope it is not because of your gross ineptitude. Who knows what's befouled this place with its passing."

"There's no mystery here, lord. I wouldn't lie. Space Marines attacked the ziggurat." Newly appointed after the former captain's violent death, the officer's voice quivered. An Inquisitor's presence terrified even the boldest. A Lord Inquisitor made the officer want to willingly face down a hive gang alone with his bare fists. The Lord Inquisitor's aura nearly broke the captain's fragile resolve.

Garbed in a white cloak and sheathed in black power armour, Euleus Saeger was a man who justified every action undertaken. In his career as a blessed Inquisitor, now a Lord Inquisitor commanding a contingent of Black Ships, he was not to be trifled with. Older than he looked, the long decades in service to the Inquisition were written deep; grooves marred his leathery face, a sneer graced bloodless lips, and eyes deeply set in pale skin looked at a world twisted. Saeger's hair was slicked over a high brow, his long face framed by a shock white beard.

In every dwelling of light, Saeger hunted the darkness which hid itself in corners. Across every face, he gazed intently for the monster under the flesh. Under the fine veneer of guarded thoughts, he sought the deep seated desires every being held. A witch hunter through and through, Saeger was the idealized figure of the Ordo Hereticus.

His deviation to Inno was no light matter. Saeger changed his course not due to the desperate pleas relayed from astropathic communiques, but through consultation of the divine Imperial Tarot. A passage from his prayer books spoke to his soul, a deliberation required, and Saeger drew forth the Tarot. Laid out on silk, gilt edges catching the candlelight, the God-Emperor spoke through them.

The Great Eye stared at Saeger, the first card pulled. Warp tendrils crept from the pupil and did little to soothe the anxiety he felt. Crossed over it was the Shattered World, the illustration depicting a barren planet, a great crack splitting it asunder. A world lost to the damnation of Chaos and to the untested powers of a psyker; the third card supporting the latter. The Magus, holding the image of a diminutive psyker with fiery eyes, was inversed. Great power would be contaminated by the vile forces. The fourth card, bringing little clarity to the reading, displayed the Hammer of the Malleus Ordo. It too was inversed. Coupled with the fifth and final card, the God-Emperor, was enough for Saeger to create a new course.

Saeger smelled the corruption when the shuttle doors opened. Setting down before the ruined Arbites keep, Saeger strode on to the planet's surface as though he were its governor. Oily black smoke poured from the massive ziggurat, hampering the recovery crew's work in finding survivors. As the newly-appointed captain from the Arbites met the Lord Inquisitor and explain what happened, Saeger snapped his fingers. He was ready to take action.

The reading of the first card had passed.

"Gren, your skills are about to be tested. Let me judge what you've learned under my tutelage."

Approaching silently behind Saeger, a plain young man garbed in black waited for his orders. Swirling out from his left temple and patterning down his jaw line, a jagged tattoo marred a sharply-lined face. Limpid grey eyes without emotion, a mouth which neither smiled nor frowned, tonsured brown hair; Gren, the sole Interrogator under Saeger's harsh tutelage, inclined his head. Behind him, a servo-skull hovered at shoulder level.

"What is required, my Lord Inquisitor?"

"Take the Arbites security logs into custody. Have the servitors immediately begin a detailed inspection into the identities of the attackers. Audit the survivors and their psychic rankings, report to me any thought to be missing. I want to know within the hour who was audacious enough to attack this," Saeger's embittered eyes glared at the commander. "Supposed stronghold."

Gren moved to find the hastily constructed command tent of the Arbites, his servo-skull following. Saeger's next course was to personally investigate the ruined interior of the compound. The Arbites captain led the Lord Inquisitor through the ziggurat's halls. He jabbered on about Space Marines wielding fire, speaking of psykers within their cells turning mad in the warriors passing. Many required death as the final sedative, their bodies burnt. Those who could be restrained were and kept in reserve cells before being transported to the Black Ships.

Once inside the ziggurat, Saeger wrinkled his nose, placing a hand over his mouth. To breathe the same fouled air as psykers was one thing, to recognize and inhale the taint of Chaos was another. He mentally shuddered at the thought. Great chunks of ferrocrete blocked the wide halls. Melted girders and twisted stairwells testified to the strength of the fires unleashed and which still burned. With the lifts nonoperational, the Hereticus Inquisitor and Arbites took to the stairs, descending into the heart of the ruined structure. Passing down the levels into the thickening acrid smoke, the Arbites commander passed Inquisitor Saeger a rebreather unit, putting his own in place.

"The damage you saw in the upper levels and along here," the officer pointed out in his muffled voice, "was caused by chained lightning." The walls, scorched and blackened, were pitted as though someone passed a saw-toothed blade across its surface. "After the psy-dampeners failed on this level, the sorcerers," he fumbled with the world, "continued down to the lower levels."

"Who were kept in the lowest recesses?" Saeger ducked under a half-collapsed pylon, keenly noting the bolt rounds embedded in the walls. Across the way and placed in a wall niche, a statue of an angel with its face pulverized to dust tilted at a drunken angle.

"Highly unstable psykers. The ones we're unable to classify and need further Assignment ratings. We ensure they are under the tightest lock and key, but what we do know is the Space Marines came-"

"Corrupted Space Marines. No pure Imperial Chapter would attack a compound," Saeger corrected the officer.

Visibly paling, the commander nodded. "Uh, y-yes. The corrupted marines made their way to the lowest of the holding cells where the most severe damage was done."

Grunting in annoyance, Saeger continued down the steps, the metal rattling in his passing. An uncomfortable silence fell. The Lord Inquisitor took note of every detail. Indeed, Saeger had played the game long enough to know what clues to look for, finding them at every turn. A precise lightning raid, careful timed, made him wonder which Legion the Chaos Space Marines hailed from. Reaching the bottom-most cells, Saeger inhaled sharply at what greeted them.

Charred walls where the rock ran like water. Twisted cables sputtering in half melted casings. Red light from the emergency lumen strips flooded the halls, flickering on and off in quick succession. Heavy smoke pooled in craters pox-marking the floor. In the midst of the deep light and choking smoke, prisms of refracted light filled the air, each a mirror multiplying Saeger's image a hundred times, a thousand. In each light he saw his futures, one as different from the other, each a complex weave of what could be. To look into one until it ended, quickly flitting to the next, Saeger saw whole lifetimes pass. Indistinguishable whispers filled the air and came from the refracted motes of light. All decreeing they knew the best course of action, the only way to succeed in this endeavour and knowing who had the gall to attack what the Black Ships owned.

With a roar Saeger shouted, "Lead not the faithful into temptation!" Pulling his force sword from its scabbard, the blade shone a blinding white in the presence of the tainted Warp. He swung at the prisms. Connecting with a blinding flash, the sword sent the refracted shards spinning into the walls where they shattered.

The horrid whispers ceased.

The barrier between dimensions was paper thin in the lowest holdings. The slightest misstep, the wrong word spoken or thought left loose, a curious glance from something on the other side, could undo the fragile wall barely in place. What the captain said rang true; the unleashed powers of a psyker had nearly destroyed this level. Saeger turned to the man, careful in dictating his words and thoughts precisely.

"Seal this area off. No one is to enter without my expressed permission. A quick death will be given to those whose curiosity gets the better of them. Am I understood?"

Saluting, the captain relayed the orders across his encrypted command channel through the rebreather comm-bead. Saeger glanced into one of the holding cells. Fire had blackened the stone walls and melted the black metal door. A portion of the ceiling had collapsed, bringing down with it one of the psy-dampener units from the upper level. Harmless dust motes floated lazily in the smoky air.

Having investigated the extent of the damage, Saeger and the Arbites captain returned to the upper levels of the ziggurat and the command tent located not far off. Menials from Saeger's coterie moved around the law keepers, commanding records and other notes of interest, hurrying in their tasks. In the center of the controlled mayhem and noise, overseeing their movements, was Gren. Catching sight of Lord Inquisitor Saeger, the Interrogator approached with data-slates in hand and a grave expression on his face. Dread fell over Saeger. Without a word, the Interrogator beckoned his master to follow. Leading him into an adjacent section of the command tent, Gren's servo-skull raised a falsehood and the background hub of noise cut off.

Gren passed his elder a data-slate. The ash green pict showed a fiercely helmed Astartes bearing an ornate black staff, lightning erupting from the palm of his gauntlet hand. It was a figure any Ordo Inquisitor worth their salt knew, a face of infamy and villainy. Eyes thirsted for dark knowledge behind that helmet, a body holding a soul corrupted by it.

"By the Emperor," Saeger made the sign of the aquila. "He dared. The filth surfaces after so long, here in this subsector, and he dares."

"Indeed, without a doubt the arch-heretic Ahriman was here. He led a group of Thousand Sons via Thunderhawk which landed on the ziggurat's roof. We know from detailed reports and other sightings that Ahriman collects a variety of arcana and mystical devices. A powerful psyker is just one of those. Also," Gren hesitantly produced another data-slate.

"Speak your thoughts, Gren. I refuse any of my acolytes to withhold their views."

"Yes, my lord." Gren licked his lips. "A psyker is unaccounted for. I cross-checked with the others kept in the holding cages and viewed the bodies ready for cremation. She is not listed. This psyker is one who was previously held in the lowest levels."

"You are certain?" Saeger's brow furrowed in anger.

"Without a doubt." Gren drew up the information from the data-slate and recited. "Number sixty-five-oh-three. Katea Kith, related to the prominent Kith House on Inno. Standard six Terran years old, her latent abilities were revealed during the Warp storm. Immolated a small group of hired mercenaries and set the Kith wheat fields on fire. I believe once the entirety of the security feeds have been examined, we will see the child, too."

"She was alone in the cell?" Saeger's eyes scanned the readily available information, committing it to memory.

Gren shook his head. He searched the data-slate. "No, another was with her. Both of their powers manifested at the same time, though hers were notably less... prominent. Amara Kith, standard six Terran years old, directly related to the same Kith House and the next heir apparent. She survived the Chaos attack and was pulled from the cell after the fires were brought under control. Emperor's grace, it's a miracle she survived at all."

Saeger's wizened eyes glinted as the seed of a thought was planted. "You have done very well, Interrogator Gren. Where is this child now?"

"In the holding cages. I will take you to see her-"

The Lord Inquisitor was already moving. He passed through the falsehood barrier and the press of bodies in the command tent, his stride growing until he was almost running. Under heavy watch from armoured Arbites and Inquisitorial storm troopers, the holding cell kept those doomed to board the Black Ship penned in. Pass the electrified fence and psy-dampener generators, shadowed and haggard faces stared out at the world. To one side crouched a little girl, shunned by the others. Gren pointed her out to Saeger.

"Amara Kith, my lord. She hasn't spoken or moved since her confinement here, not even when I tried to coax words from her. Whatever she was privy to hearing and seeing when Chaos came, she refuses to be forthcoming. I don't believe she'll speak at all. Perhaps the traitors thought she would burn alive in the cell."

"What is her exact relation to the missing psyker?"

"Cousins, to be precise. Both were officially stricken from the Kith House records after their psychic powers were confirmed, which isn't surprising, and they were-"

"_'Few are those who stand before the tainted and remain pure, to leave them without cause is a sin unto itself'_." The Lord Inquisitor clutched his rosette seal. "Do you not feel this moment, Gren? How the Emperor has guided us here for a colossal undertaking? This child survived an attack by the arch-heretic Ahriman. For reasons we cannot fathom, this child is a sign from His Most Holy, a link, and it will not slip from my fingers."

The Interrogator raised an eyebrow. "I am lost to your reasoning, Lord Saeger."

"Through this child and her cousin, should she yet draw breath, the path to destroying Ahriman is open. The Imperial Tarot spoke to me, Gren, spoke to me and gifted this vast undertaking into my care. I will end one of the greatest scourges in the galaxy. My name will ring in the halls of ancient Terra itself."

Speaking with the force and passion many of the Ordo Hereticus possessed, Saeger overrode the Interrogator's cautionary words. Looking at the child inside the detainment cell with something close to pity, Gren knew the monumental moment for Saeger meant something much worse for the child. Ordering the guards to admit him entry, the Inquisitor Lord touched the golden aquila pinned to his cloak. An old habit, a trait he had never broken from in his days as a noviate. The Arbites guards let the Inquisitor enter without contest, the chain-linked door rolling back. The psykers inside looked up with wide eyes and thundering hearts.

Timid and cowed, they moved like a flight of migratory birds upon seeing the great figure in power armour enter. Glancing briefly above him where one of many psy-dampener were placed, Saeger spared a withering look to the untouchables of Imperial society. Weak fools, cursed insipid souls. It sickened Saeger that the Imperium took its strength from people who could not properly control it themselves, thus allowing a deadly contamination to seep into the Materium. For men of his spiritual calibre to ferry these beings to their demise, Saeger felt his purity diminished in close contact to them.

Saeger considered the child he approached. Her skin bubbled and peeled across a red face and thin arms. Who would waste a medicae kit on a child bound to die? Amara Kith still wore the psy-collar and cuffs, soot-blackened with the machine spirit faithfully binding her powers. Her expression was vacant, green eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Sweat soaked blonde hair lay plastered to a raw scalp. Hunched over with knees tucked up under her chin and arms wrapped around her legs, she was the picture of perfect misery.

Kneeling down, Saeger was taken aback when the girl lifted her face to look at him fully. Her cracked lips moved.

"I hate them."

"Who, child?"

"The ones who took Katea away. I hate them."

The sheer intensity behind those few words assured the Lord Inquisitor of the future personality Amara Kith would bear. He could use such anger, cultivate and bind it to the God-Emperor's will and his personal dogma. "Does your hatred burn bright against the followers of Chaos who took Katea from you? Do you know the cost of the words you use?"

The girl nodded once. "Yes."

"What would you do for revenge?"

"I want to find and kill them. Each one of them. I want to bring Katea home. I promised to keep her safe." Wetness pooled at the edge of her eyes. Tears began to spill over. "I told Katea we wouldn't be apart. I promised."

Resting a hand on the girl's shoulder, Saeger stated, "The God-Emperor knows of your promise. Do you know who I am?" A shake of the girl's head made the Lord Inquisitor laugh. "I am Lord Inquisitor Saeger of the Ordo Hereticus. It is my pious duty, given by the God-Emperor Himself, to hunt down and exterminate the forces of Chaos wherever they hide. My hatred is my shield, my unyielding faith becomes the sword by which I take their lives. I can ensure your revenge against Chaos."

"I want my revenge," she answered. The smile twisting her face did not belong to a child. Grabbing Saeger's hands in both of hers, the girl pulled herself upright. "I want to bring Katea home. What do I have to do?"

Saeger held out the small rosette seal of his office. "This is a small thing. Small, but it holds great power. I will teach you how to use this power effectively with your hate driving you on. Tell me your name, girl, so I know who my acolyte will be."

"Amara Kith."

"Amara Kith," Saeger intoned, marking the Imperial aquila on her soot-covered brow. "You will learn the galaxy is a harsh place. The only way Mankind can survive is for us, the servants of the undying Emperor, to be harsher yet. Steel your anger, for it will take you far."

* * *

Twilight fell over Ulsan like a grieving shawl. The city was quiet, its people humbled and following the sounds of church bells to their compline prayers. Surveying the capital city of Inno, a mere speck against the landscape, the planet a grain of sand in a cosmos filled by uncounted more, a dark shadow covered Saeger's face. Gren noticed his teacher's frown. His approach was careful, footsteps purposefully loud as he exited the Stormbird.

"What troubles you?"

Saeger turned from the cityscape, eyes hooded. "Ahriman has murdered this world. Stand as my witness to my testimony, Gren, for I swear upon the Golden Throne, I shall end his life."

"A personal crusade, Lord Saeger?" A cool wind kicked up from the high plains, mournfully howling as it whipped down the streets of Ulsan.

"Consider this, Interrogator. How do we know the taint of Chaos has not been sowed in some cloaked fashion? It could be a year, a decade or even centuries before it boils to the surface like some malignant tumour to spread itself. We can never be certain, not when the Dark Powers have come into play. So many lives yet unborn already cut from the fold."

Gren's throat constricted. "We can set a watch. This world isn't dead just yet. The people are hardy, diligent and quick to act. Why, we could even set a company of Grey Kni-"

"We cannot. Already the Inquisition's reach is weak in the Mizar subsector. To stretch ourselves too finely invites disaster, disasters we cannot afford to have. The only way one can be truly sure of the Ruinous Powers never laying claim to Inno is through _exterminatus_."

Saeger gave the order as though it were a grand proclamation, sweeping his hand across the capital, swatting at it like a fly. Heedless of the lives condemned. The tempest had passed, leaving the air chilled as night fully fell. If the stars heard what the Lord Inquisitor planned for Inno, they could not stop it. Yes, a world of rich resources would be lost to the Imperium, yet compared to have it fall into the claws of Chaos and the souls damned, it was a necessary loss.

"You may be acting too hastily," Gren countered. "We should wait for a divine sign. Consult the Tarot again, start a purity check of the people, but do not call for _exterminatus_. It's not required."

"Once you have seen what I have and fought what I have fought, you will not think I am acting in haste, Gren. Your naivety will be bled out in time. Follow you duty in my service and heed my orders before we depart. Bring my newest acolyte back to the Black Ships and give her a sleeping cell. Round up the survivors who came into contact with the heretical Astartes and those who tended to the Kiths. I will rendezvous with you in a short while. May the God-Emperor bless and protect you."

Saeger appreciated the landscape of Inno one final time before reciting a quiet benediction to the world. He never hesitated in his actions. He never reneged in his words. He never faltered in his resolve. The image of the Shattered World flashed in Saeger's psyche. How long until the other Tarot cards he dealt would reveal their hand?

* * *

When Amara Kith set her feet on the plated deck of the commanding Black Ship, she was struck by the chill. Even in later years she would never forget the way it radiated outward, as though a lump of ice were forming inside her body. Her teeth chattered involuntarily. She curled her fingers and toes in an effort to make them warm, cold even with the heavy brown cloak given to her to wear. Mechanics in heavy suits and crewmen in long coats walked past the child, seemingly indifferent to the cold inside the cavernous docking bay. Perhaps having travelled for so long on the ship, they had acclimatised themselves. Amara exhaled, watching her breath turn into a white plume which dissipated into the rib vaulting high above.

It was dark on the Black Ship. Even with the bright lights from the lumen panels and the sun globes, the darkness clung in the corners and to the edges of the steel walls. Everything lay cast in stark relief; there was little between hard shadow or harsh light. Whether it was because of the nature of the Black Ships or something else, it was offsetting. Amara turned to march back into the transport and the familiar security it offered, only to be stopped by Gren's voice.

"If you're done gawking, follow me." Gren hurried down the ramp of the transport, his servo-skull buzzing after the Interrogator. Holding a canvas bag in its pincer arms the servo-skull clicked in binary at the child. Gren smiled mirthlessly. "Don't get lost. I'm not wasting my time finding you if you do."

He strode down the long embarkation deck. She followed, not wanting to become lost on the strange vessel. She thought the docking bay was loud with metallic crashes and crewmen barking orders; the halls teeming with servants, aides and soldiers were louder yet. The press of bodies made the girl awkward, the faces of the people unwelcoming and too stern. Hastily, she grabbed the hem of Gren's sleeve and held fast. Glancing down briefly, the Interrogator allowed the girl to cower. Having once been in Amara's position, the young man understood the child's anxiety. But Gren's approach was practical. Better for Amara to be thrown into the deep immediately and learn how to swim. He hadn't been given a choice.

"You are aboard one of the many infamous Black Ships which ferry psykers to the Throneworld." Gren side-stepped a lumbering servitor, Amara darting lightning-quick after him. "This isn't the Lord Inquisitor's personal flagship; he is charged in the safe delivery of this fleet. He will bring the annual tithe to its ultimate end."

Amara let her eyes wander. She passed black marble statues of long-forgotten heroes in solemn state, looked up as cherubs flew overhead with incense wafting from the thuribles they held, touched the gold filigree patterning the walls. The vaulting ceiling was a criss-cross of iron girders and stain glass windows looking out into the stars beyond. In every nook and cranny, altars to the Emperor and His various saints were displayed. Some people between work shifts knelt in the middle of prayers before the shrines. Gren's voice brought Amara back to the present, her eyes latching on to the bald spot of his tonsured hair.

"Your training will begin immediately. You're Lord Saeger's newest pupil, but don't think you'll get off lightly because of your age. You should rid yourself of any notions of easy living in an Inquisitor's service. Whatever you were use to on Inno, you'll find the opposite here. When Lord Saeger is involved with higher affairs, I will be your tutor. I hope for your sake you learn fast." Gren smiled. Amara was unsure if he was making a joke or being serious.

Crossing over walkways where the heights and spinning depths underneath left Amara with vertigo, Gren hurried Amara into a lift. It whispered upwards, passing by levels too quick for the foundling child to see what was happening on them but hearing the hubbub so many voices created. The cold from the docking bay intensified. Amara clutched her stomach in discomfort.

"The Black Ships are heavily guarded against psychic manifestations from both within and without. What you sense beyond the basic physical," Gren tapped Amara's head, "are the null barriers protecting the upper levels from what's below. Think of it like the psy-collar you wear, only to a greater degree and ship-wide. Heed my words, don't go down to the lower decks. Keep to the upper levels and where you're designated to go and everything will be fine."

The lift stopped after an eternity, its doors hissing open to reveal a corridor flooded with light from burning sconces. White and black veined marble pillars flanked either side of the hall, portholes between the pillars revealing the star scape. Embossed in gold on the black granite floor, the Imperial aquila's wings were spread wide, its eyes forever vigilant. Stepping onto the landing, Gren patiently waited for Amara to follow. In the end, the servo-skull gave her a vigorous push to spur her out of the lift. There were less aides and armoured guards in the upper levels, replaced by officers wearing braided storm grey uniforms and figures in power armour. The noise was significantly less, voices never rising above a polite murmur.

"Follow me. We'll soon be at the observation platform. From there," Gren paused, deliberating in his words. Inno hung heavy on the aft-side of the Black Ships fleet. "You can see your home world for the last time. As an acolyte, you only give obeisance to Lord Saeger and the captain of the Black Ships. The Lord Inquisitor's retinue will be introduced to you; be polite to them. You don't have to talk with them unless you want to, but it would be to your advantage to get to know- "

A white robed figure knocked into Gren. Arms encircled his waist tightly, the diminutive person a sharp contrast to the tall Interrogator in black. Surprised by the sudden appearance, Gren looked down at the upturned face of Selina, the Lord Inquisitor's personal prophetess. He smiled tightly, almost painfully, and when he spoke his tone was hard-edged.

"Hello, Selina. Did you run away from your keeper again?"

She put a finger to her lips. Why Lord Saeger kept an abomination such as Selina close remained a mystery to many; Saeger's contempt for psykers was well-known. Gren limited his encounters with Selina, fearing on some level of having a prophecy aligned to him spoken. He held little desire to know his future. Saved from the dark holds of the Black Ships, her prophecies were curses. Bouts assailed the girl, her voice and mannerisms changing in the span of heartbeats, unsettling the most stalwart in her presence.

"Who is that?" One voluminous sleeve gestured to Amara.

"Lord Saeger's newest pupil. You have your answer, now take your leave."

Gren pried her loose. Selina, now fixated on Amara, stared at her as though she were an exotic beast. Something passed over her face, a ripple across the skin, a fire lighting the eyes. Gren waved his hand in front of the prophetess' face. When he tried to forcefully push her away, she squirmed out of Gren's grip to sidle up alongside Amara. Aged wrinkles gathered at the corners of Selina's eyes.

"What's your name?" Selina twisted the rag doll she carried. When no answer came, she pressed closer and repeated her question. Amara, expression haggard, looked to Gren for assistance.

Gren sighed. "You might as well answer her. Once she's found someone who interests her, Selina won't leave them be until she's given answers."

Reassured, the girl answered, "Amara Kith."

Selina snapped her fingers. "I thought as much. I was travelling the halls and Tasha whispered for me to come this way. I was told to talk with you. Yes, yes, I am doing just that right now. No worries." Rocking the rag doll in her arms, Selina smiled. "You are sad, Amara Kith, very sad. You shouldn't be. Those saved by the Inquisitor Lord are bound for a better life. Aren't you saved?"

Amara nodded once. "I am."

"May I see your hand?" The question was abrupt, the subject change sudden. Selina grabbed Amara's hand before she could answer. Selina's body seized up upon contact, eyes clouding over in a filming white substance. "Ah, Tasha was right about you. You are so sad... and angry. Very angry. This isn't good."

Her voice changed pitch, rising octaves higher. Gren could not step in and forcibly remove Selina; to do so might jarr whatever connection the prophetess held open. Her abilities were wild and, unknowing what could be pulled from the maw of the future, the Interrogator did nothing. Amara was too stunned to do more than freeze in place, looking at the change overcoming Selina. The lump of ice in her gut roiled, pain lancing into her chest.

Gasping suddenly, from shock or revulsion, Selina dropped her rag doll and broke contact. Tears gathered at the corners of her old eyes, the iris and pupil returning to their original state. "Why would you do those things? Such horrible things. They just wanted to help you. They trusted you."

"What things? What did you see, Selina?" Gren attempted to grab the prophetess. She balled her hands into fists and swung wildly with her rag doll, hitting Gren's arm. He let her go, pushing her back.

"To your keeper, girl. Lord Saeger will be informed of this. If you will not tell me, you will explain everything to him."

Spluttering nonsense words with a growl, Selina ran down one of the many side corridors and vanished from sight. Amara stood numbly, staring after the crazed being allowed to walk free. Gren led Amara on without a word until they reached the observation deck. Ornately decorated brass rails circled the edge of the landing where, beyond a vast dome, Inno hung in the void. Others were already assembled, people who played instrumental roles on the Lord Inquisitor's staff nodding to Gren. He jostled for a place at the front, pushing Amara ahead of him so she might see the planet. She vacantly stared ahead, her mind elsewhere, unaware that this first view of her world was also her last.

Gren placed a hand on Amara's shoulder to stir her from her pensive thoughts. "Don't listen to her words. Selina has no clue to what she sees or what she says."

"She's crazy. I don't like her."

"Neither do I. It might amaze you to know how many people don't want her here. Some think she belongs back in the lower holds." Beside him, Gren's servo-skull wove back and forth in the air as though agreeing.

"I don't think I can trust anyone here. My grandfather and mother weren't there, and just now," Amara trailed off without finishing her thought.

"Amara," Gren said. "Out of all the people in all of the Imperium, you can trust in me. You have my word."

A familiar litany. What a little girl had promised another in a dark cell not long ago and had been unable to uphold. Amara looked at the upturned palm Gren held out to her, then to the plain face. His smile held warmth, more than what Amara saw in Saeger, or even her grandfather. Amara was unsure in believing the words people spoke. Everything was hollow, nothing transparent. She cast her gaze to the others about the deck; hooded figures, hunch-backed adepts, even members of the Ecclesiarchy were present. People she intrinsically felt said one thing and meant another. No, not to be trusted.

Gren now, he was different.

A snap decision. Would it haunt her in the years to come? Without knowing, Amara rested her hand in Gren's. "I trust you."

An organ thundered, its pealing notes echoing into the darkness of the Black Ships. Through an adjacent door, Lord Inquisitor Saeger appeared. People bowed as the Hereticus Inquisitor made his way through their ranks. Stepping to the fore of the ornate observation deck, Saeger gestured imperiously. A Pontifex Astra of the Ecclesiarchy stepped forward, the scarlet red of his robes denoting his high office, holding a gold-bound tome in liver spotted hands. Handing the book to the Lord Inquisitor, the preacher turned to address the assembled.

"We bear witness to the ending of a world's life. Extinguished from the galaxy, souls to be guided to the God-Emperor's light, Inno's taint will be unable to spread and infect the Mizar subsector. Let us pray for those whose blessed ignorance covers their eyes. Let us pray for those as they are released from these mortal coils." He made the sign of the aquila. "A spiritu dominatus, domine, libra nos, from the lighting and the tempest, Our Emperor, deliver us."

The hymnal was repeated in solemnity. Amara Kith's lips moved quietly; she remembered the Kith family chapel and Father Curasso's sermons. Saeger towered next to her, a judge to billions of souls, watching her movements. Discordant notes blared from the organ. The incense weaved through the air, its tendrils heavy enough to choke on. It was a moment where nothing made sense and everything did, the Pontifex Astra's voice rising over the hymnal score.

"Love the Emperor, for He is the salvation of Mankind. Obey His words for He will lead you into the light of the future. Heed his wisdom, for He will protect you from evil. Whisper His prayers with devotion, for they will save your soul. Honour His servants, for they speak in His voice. Tremble before His majesty, for we all walk in His immortal shadow."

The prayer ended. Saeger's deep eyes bored into Amara's soul and his words resounded to all present. "Watch your home cleansed in holy fire, child. Know you have been saved by the God-Emperor's grace and from this day onward, your debt to Him begins."

The _exterminatus_ began.

Amara hid in Gren's shadow to watch Inno's final moments. Fiery blossoms erupted across gold and green fields, purging life from the verdant agri-world. Crops incinerated in moments, the legacy of the Inno Houses with their petty feuding wiped away. A slate cleaned with nothing new to be written on it. She averted her eyes as waves of cyclonic torpedoes fell away from the fleet, cracking open Inno's crust, expelling fire from within. Amara's eyes watered at the sight, her fear of fire stemming from traumatic memories. Katea had burnt the men slowly, the fire in the cell had been a scorching inferno, the bodies of the dead psykers tossed on to reeking pyres of death still vivid.

Everything was changing and nothing would be right again. Selina's words, Gren's promise, Saeger's looming presence; a nauseating sensation kicked Amara in the stomach. Bile rose in her throat as a choir sang to Inno's death keel. A planet's annihilation, which should have inspired an apocalyptic opera or a dramatic work of art, only brought out the intense sensation of a nightmare forming in the young child.

Amara Kith retched on the carpeted floor and was ushered away to the apothecary to have her psy-bindings removed.

* * *

Sequestered in his reclusium, the chamber shaped in the likeness of a pyramid with walls of panelled glass, Ahriman was unable to find any peace. His agitation made it difficult to slip into a trance. The psionic crystals drifting about the reclusium glowed a dull red, echoing to the state of his aura, their colour casting the room in a blood red glow. The sorcerer's concentration hadn't been the same after Inno. He still heard the screams of the child echoing in his mind, panicked and shrill. Her psychic emanation was seeping into the _Khermuti _even now, disrupting the mental planes of each of the Thousand Sons without thought or care.

Ahriman exhaled sharply. Burning eyes snapped open, his upturned palms closing into fists without realising the motion. In all places aboard the _Khermuti_, his one sanctuary was no longer his own.

One of the psionic crystals flashed. Irritated, Ahriman waved it aside with a thought, observing its tumbling dance through the air. It continued to shimmer, the light growing stronger. Someone's attempt to contact him was insistent. Summoning his black staff into his hands, Ahriman rose to his feet in one fluid motion, exiting the sanctity of his reclusium to see what was so important.

A single figure waited in the antechamber beyond, balancing a garnet orb across bare knuckles, deftly twisting it into the palm of his large hand before it could fall. Osis Pathoth gave a small nod to Ahriman, his vague smile irritating. Ahriman regarded the other and uttered a single question.

"What is it?"

"The master of the vessel emerges," the vizier's remark was caustic. "Have you been granted a vision to where we must be led to next? Your idleness is vexing some."

Ahriman smiled in return, no mirth held in the expression. "For you to be walking so soon after your primary heart's injury, are you unwise enough to not choose a more careful battle? Or will you now be the prolocutor between all the Sons and myself?"

"I advise when it becomes necessary, such as now. Tzeentch takes care of those with designs yet completed. Tell me," Pathoth spun the orb, "I heard a curious murmuring while the apothecary mended my wound. How loud peoples' minds become when their lips are stitched shut. Medicae suppressants to be given to the child?"

Ahriman stalked around the antechamber. "I have my reasons, the least to preserve the sanctity of my vessel. The apothecary is concocting an opiate to bring her to heel. I dare not take off those psy-bindings until she's been properly subdued. Never have I heard a child scream so much, or seen a whelp so poorly-raised. You witnessed what nearly happened in the arming bay."

"Bless the Dark Gods the _Khermuti_'s void shields work as they should."

"Preparing the cell alone cost me greatly. Triple wards and bindings inscribed into the walls to contain her emotional upheaval, and I can still sense it from here. Her unrefined talent exceeds my expectations, but I won't be caught off guard." Ahriman's voice grew louder as he justified his actions. "Do not be daft in saying you are above it, Pathoth. A stupor is required for the time being. Curbing the child of any impulses until she knows who her betters are."

"Do you intend to make her life one of drug-induced stupefaction? Who knows what damage will happen to her mind, let alone her body. The child is too frail right now, too confused." The vizier clicked his tongue. "Allow me to talk reason to a child where your lofty mind fails to reach. Tell the apothecary to flush his poisons. No medicine will be required."

"Where does this arrogance of yours stem from?" Ahriman stopped his tirade, levelling a hostile gaze at Pathoth.

"To spite you," Pathoth stated. "Should I fail and die, my body crushed by the untested powers of this psyker, you have the pleasure of jettisoning my remains into the void, no?"

"Your feeble attempt to aggravate is noted. Your endeavour, suicidal as it is, will be allowed. Seeing your brains dashed against a bulkhead might improve my disquiet."

He ruminated over the image, finding it suited his mood. Ahriman's black thoughts turned inwards. Once properly bound to his service, nothing remained unfeasible for the psyker to accomplish. Magnus would be hard pressed to not admit a mortal of such calibre has its uses. Even without his precognition, Ahriman saw the distant future arranged. Perhaps with the child's powers fettered to his, Ahriman could tutor Magnus to the grave error made in his banishment...

Osis Pathoth abruptly turned in Ahriman's direction. Whether it was Ahriman's words or a slip of his ambitious thoughts rising to the surface, the Vizier to the Magus gave no acknowledgement. Ahriman quickly spoke to mask his sentiments.

"Has our Primarch been notified to my raid against the Black Ships?"

"I have not spoken to the Primarch in some time."

"Now would be an opportune moment to inform Magnus I have reached the conclusion of the Jollana scroll's prophecy," Ahriman said.

"In the end," Pathoth's voice slipped into a neutral tone, "it is Lord Magnus who decides your return. Whatever acts you undertake to impress will do little to influence his ultimate decision."

"Surely," Ahriman vexed, "he will want to know of this, _advisor_."

"Come the next time I engage in conversation with him, he shall."

"Within the next cycle, of course." Ahriman's implied command, arrogant and put so blithely, raised Pathoth's choler. Suppressing his ego and reciting a mantra of calm, Pathoth reined in a violence which rose frighteningly quick. He knew the grand sorcerer's personality, knew his lay in direct opposition, and what he had sworn to commit and uphold to in the name of the Crimson King.

"After I see the child and presumably survive the encounter, it will be done, Lord Ahriman."

Given leave, Osis Pathoth traversed the ever-shifting corridors of the _Khermuti_ to arrive at the threshold of the warding chambers. Beyond the heavy doors where runes ever-shifted in the stillness of the air, Ahriman's barriers protecting the starship, Pathos found Bethos waiting. Nodding in acknowledgement, the Thousand Son wordlessly pointed ahead of him. While the vizier's wounds were being treated, Bethos stood in Pathoth's stead and watched over the confinement of the child psyker.

Kept in the center of a great sunken amphitheatre on bloodied knees, silver chains encircling her tiny body, the child looked anything but dangerous. Inside great interlocking circles, wherein thaumaturgy symbols wove themselves about, the tremendous psychic emanations the child threw off were halted. Likened to a great wall of water held back by glass, the tiniest crack would spell doom if the protective spells were not secure. Her psy-bindings remained on, blackened from the fire. A servant had shorn off a great deal of her long hair, the fire having left great red welts along her scalp.

"Repulsive," Pathoth murmured to himself.

Dismissing Bethos, the Vizier of the Magus descended the staircase and crossed the expanse until he stood over the child. Transferring his staff into his left hand as he knelt, Pathoth removed his helm with the right, actions mirroring the past in the Jollana Librarium. Close to a century and he still remembered the face of the sprite-child who engaged him in conversation. When the same face looked upwards, eyes bloodshot and fearful, Pathoth did not register surprise or shock as lesser mortals would. He merely nodded his head, pleased in Tzeentch's will to set the future in motion.

"Such a shame," he began, keeping his tone purposefully low. "Someone cut off your long hair. It will grow back, just as your wounds will heal without scars. How fortunate your burns are only superficial."

The girl shook her head, a clump of blonde hair falling to the floor. "I want to go home," she sobbed. Even with the psy-bindings and aegis' in place, her coarse power was barely contained, yearning to rip free.

"This is your home now."

"I want my mother. I want-"

"_This_is your home now." Channelling a measure of substantial will into his words, Pathoth's statement stopped the girl's tears. "I am Osis Pathoth, Vizier to Magnus the Red, the Crimson King and Daemon Prince to the Lord of Change. These names and titles mean nothing to you now, but the weight they carry will be one you shall come to know. You do not know of me, or what I am, but I have known of you for a long while, child. Your future was written before your birth."

Puffy red eyes glared at the sorcerer. "Where's my cousin? She promised to be with me."

"Your cousin is dead. Your family did not want you. The Imperium and your God-Emperor despise people such as yourself, for the power and potential you hold." He continued, watching the child shake her head as she grew distraught. "You will be given a new name for your rebirth."

"My name is Katea!" Her bonds shook. The metal links began to bend.

"There is no more Katea. She died on Inno, taken by flames and death." Osis Pathoth looked into the child's eyes, arresting her convulsions. "From this point on, only Neferuaat exists."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**002.M42**

**Imperial colony 1034; formerly designated Kianemure, Maiden World**

_From Lugganath I ran. I fled as the spirits of my ancestors and those within the infinity circuit shrieked after me, howling. Of duty. Of responsibility. Of acceptance to fate. I fled those who attempted to halt my flight, my limbs contorting to escape their clutches. My psyche thundered throughout the wraithbone halls and gilded towers, past rivers where the spirit lanterns bobbed on the waters and the aggressive houses of the Aspects where the warriors trained. _

_I did not wish my young life denied; I could not see the beauty of treading a Path resigned. Honour is a meaningless word – my youth and impertinence led me. The weight of family duty is crushing. I was not the only son, there were others. Let them be fit to take my stead, their minds strong while mine tarried in the world of far flung adventure. These walls suffocated me._

_My name is Taekaedr. I became an Exodite, leaving the shadows of Lugganath behind in a wash of misery._

* * *

The flesh of mortals is weak, subjective, and ultimately mutable. To resist the pull of Chaos and the changes it brought, the individual's strength of self needed to be resolute and firm. Psykers were easier to manipulate and turn in Chaos' favour; consequently the Imperium soul-bound all they discovered or implanted neural inhibitors to blunt their powers lest the Warp overtake them. Those living beyond the totalitarian grip of the Imperium found other means to command their abilities; brilliant teachers taught extraordinary students. The learning curve was steep with no pity forthcoming. To master Chaos and its vicious trickery, the weaker emotions and ideals were purged, the soft mind forged into unyielding steel.

Ahriman's training brought pain. It left soul-scarring, mind-numbing aches to the body and nightmarish images imprinted on the mind. The telekinetic wave following the mental assault threw Neferuaat to the floor and pinned her to the metal. She would be forced to brace against the attack and attempt a defence, or have her mind flayed again until she collapsed. No pity was given to the child's age. Ahriman's views were the opposite. He spoke with dispassion of Neferuaat not being allowed to hide behind her childhood, that time never halted and people grew older. Her powers would be cultivated and her experience with them matured in Time's march.

Another blistering wave crashed inside the girl's mind. Neferuaat tried to reflect it, clumsily shouting a word of incantation. The inflection behind the word was wrong and the pain sharpened, the defence battered aside like a skiff on the high seas. Ahriman never relented and Neferuaat collapsed again, all of her powers nothing without the proper training.

"For the greatest attack to succeed, you must first defend yourself. Never underestimate both allies and foes," he spoke calmly. Neferuaat staggered to her feet, blood dribbling from her nose to stain her white robes. "All the Thousand Sons sorcerers who were, are, or will be, know this cardinal rule – your mental defence must be impenetrable for a victorious strike against your target."

Thus the first half of the lesson would conclude and Ahriman, apathetic to the limitations the child displayed, would turn to meditation. He carefully showed Neferuaat, who wiped the blood from her nose on to her sleeve, to inscribe and consecrate a circle. Filling a yawning burner of silver with hemlock and sage, the sorcerer ignited the flame. Very soon the air was suffused with a fragrance which eased the transition from one sphere of thought to the next. Not that someone of Ahriman's peerless ability required aid. Neferuaat did.

"Envision the Enumerations. Focus your mind upon them and let go of other thoughts. Nothing matters but this moment, and as you understand this moment, let time slip away. Hold only the Enumerations in your mind." Ahriman intoned the words with a quiet reverence. He inhaled and exhaled with the practiced ease of centuries.

Even out of his armour and dressed in the understated robes of a scholar, Ahriman was still a giant to the sprite of a girl. Sitting across the burner with a petulant expression on her face, Neferuaat eased her tired body into a half-lotus position. Her long blonde hair, having grown back, was plaited, framing a cherub face with blue eyes that usually flashed with conceit. Now they held only fatigue. Neferuaat disliked the morning training and rituals, of waking early, of being psychically thrashed, of having to sit perfectly straight, of breathing in air which stank and having to think about not thinking. To a nine year old child, it was all very complex and mystifying.

Half-known shapes came in the new perspective as her mental planes resolved; a little of the past and a little of the future intermingled. Once familiar objects in the chamber loomed in the growing landscape brought by Neferuaat's widening sight. She rubbed at her eyes, digging the heels of her palms against the orbs to banish the sight. It was in vain for when she looked again, the double-images returned. She walked in a dream of what could be and what was, learning to discern which was which.

"Do not inhale like a floundering fish. Breathe properly and sit still." Scorn dripped from the teacher's voice.

"It's difficult." Neferuaat's retort held the edge of a whine.

"Concentrate on the Enumerations. Today, I grant you the use of a focus for you to channel with." A ruby skittered across the floor toward Neferuaat. "Use it properly, achieve the First Enumeration as you have done before, and resolve your visions of the past and future. I might grant you an early leave from our classes afterward."

"Why is this so important?"

Ahriman spoke with the long-suffering patience of one who oft repeated himself. "The Enumerations accustom your body to channelling the energies it houses from the Warp. To ensure you never suffer a fatal psionic build-up, the Enumerations help you visualize the various chakras until you no longer need to undertake the practice. What schisms you see within the aether are a part of your unique link with the Immaterium, Neferuaat."

Half of what was told was lost on Neferuaat's young mind. The promise of class ending early held a higher currency over understanding her psychic growth. She clasped the ruby in both hands, closing her eyes against the nauseous wavering images of past and future. Ahriman watched her aural colour alter from a muddied red to a burnished yellow, the apprentice now at proper study. From the ruby, tendrils of energy were drawn into Neferuaat as she diligently concentrated.

Ahriman regarded her while she meditated. Neferuaat, she was power made flesh. She held the unrefined talent to become whatever her mind could conceive, but she would in no way reach the level of Practicus if she never focused her willpower and _channelled_. A contemplative silence descended over the room, the master sorcerer guiding the acolyte. Her breathing slowed, her aura flared, the ruby's energy leeched slowly away.

Three years of intensive training, honing a mind and body in resisting childish outbursts and ripen at an antedated pace was no simple feat. Ahriman pushed the child to learn beyond her years, undeterred by her youth. He refused others to instruct her and taint the child's mind with their enfeebling comprehension to the inner workings of Tzeentch. Even now, the Changer of the Ways was manifesting certain powers in her; precognition and telepathy. Unnervingly, Neferuaat once displayed the ability to bilocate, talking with Ahriman on the _Khermuti_ while seen down in the libraries under close guard. When questioned under duress how she managed such a feat, the girl broke into tears and said she remembered nothing.

Such was her raw power. But oh, the talent that would come from it all and what could be achieved! If only she focused.

A sharp crack – from the gemstone – destroyed the tranquility of silence. The ruby, bleached white as bone, was held passively in the girl's grip. She smiled across the brazier at Ahriman, her tired eyes alight. "Lord Pathoth is here. It's urgent from the way he walks, almost choleric."

Ahriman was about to remind the girl the viceroy was on the _Meskhenet _when he sensed the resonance of Pathoth's psyche. Pathoth, in his actions, was merely being polite by unmasking his presence before entering the meditation antechamber. Neferuaat bounded up in a rush and darted toward Pathoth, her feet kicking aside the dust of the protective circle.

"Neferuaat." Ahriman's cold voice halted the girl. Aware of the cardinal error made, the child sharply turned on her heel and returned to her seat, mortified. The arch-sorcerer waved aside her excuses and said nothing. The lesson was over; no doubt this was just one of the many compounded intents Pathoth hoped to achieve by his arrival. The audacity behind it curled Ahriman's calm.

He rose and trod over the broken line to Pathoth. "What is so urgent to disturb my tutoring?"

"Hail, Lord Ahriman." Pathoth chose to ignore the quarrelsome tone. "You desired to know the moment we achieved orbit over the Imperial colony. I came to convey the missive."

"And to use it as a means to interrupt my mentorship."

"If you wish to see it in this manner, who am I to argue?" Pathoth kept his composure, examining the bland chamber as though finding it the most interesting room in the entire galaxy.

Ahriman followed Pathoth's gaze to where Neferuaat sat, holding the dead ruby in her hands. "Child, cease your worthless attempts. You have broken the boundary and ruined the warding seal. Make your time useful in other matters."

Rising too quickly for Ahriman's liking, Neferuaat hurried over to the two Astartes. Handing the remains of the ruby into Pathoth's hand with a proud smile, she occupied her free time by looking at the flames from the burner. The Vizier of the Magus looked at what he'd been given, considering his words before speaking. "She must have a focus. Adepts her age on Prospero had one. They aid in mental elucidation, steadiness, to have another shoulder the burden when it became too great alone."

"We no longer dwell on Prospero, Osis. Look how our Tutelaries turned against us." Ahriman banished the memory in revulsion.

"I would not propose a Warp-based creature, Ahzek. A more substantial being, something other than crystals she drains so quickly, belonging to this realm." Pathoth held up the brittle white rock and crushed it. "Foci with a more enduring substance are ideal."

Ahriman studied the sorcerer. "Are you insinuating a lack of proper education and preparation on my part?"

"Never. You are one of the most reputed psykers in the galaxy, foremost of all sorcerers, aside from the mighty daemon princes of Tzeentch." Pathoth smiled. "However, the undertaking Magnus gave you requires much time. The quest to understand the nature of Tzeentch cannot be interrupted. Magnus is waiting on the conclusion, one he believes you might soon reach."

"One I shallreach," Ahriman vehemently replied. "I haven't ample time to waste in training, no matter the potential. I acknowledge the time lost in tutoring Neferuaat weighs against me. Hours spent on the most basic of lessons when I could have exercised my mind on higher matters. Time which I do not have that you," he examined the marine, "conversely, do."

Time, the key to all things. Ten thousand years brought him the scroll, which gave Ahriman a psyker who could aid in his machinations, then a maddening quiet from the maelstrom. Having been at a standstill for too long, the Chaos sorcerer knew it was time to move forward once more. Pathoth was a wise, if guarded, stand-in for the child's training. With the vizier's attendance, Ahriman knew the game of controlling Neferuaat and keeping his influence undiminished could become threatened.

"If your duties require your far-reaching abilities elsewhere, shall I take your words as more than suggestion and say they are orders?"

Both sorcerers watched the girl kick one of the used crystals into the air, suspending it as she levitated another. Slapping her hands together, the gems mirrored Neferuaat's movements and crashed into the other violently, flying apart in shards of glass. Her simple pleasure in the destruction was… disquieting.

Ahriman dictated his terms. "I require a demonstration every cycle to what is being taught. This is invariable. As you once said, my lofty mind holds grand designs. I lead a quest for the very heart of knowledge and magic. You will direct Neferuaat's immediate schooling."

"Does she remain on the _Khermuti_ or will she be moved to the _Meskhenet_?"

"As long as she is shielded by psycurium in her sleeping cell, do as you see fit." The _Khermuti_ still echoed painfully with Neferuaat's psychic shrieks. And her nightmares. The psycurium could only fend off so much; lingering phantasms shifting into being to follow her when the child left her rooms. Let Pathoth deal with nightmares made monstrous flesh in the bowels of his ship. To move Neferuaat might be a dark blessing in disguise.

"Have I the privilege to provide a focus for her training?"

"Do as you see fit," Ahriman repeated. "She knows who holds mastery over her. Child," Ahriman narrowed his eyes. "Cease the destruction of the crystals and come here. As of this moment, your studies pass from my watch into the hands of Osis Pathoth. Yet I am still your master in all things. Do you understand?"

Fixed by Ahriman's ruling gaze and mere presence, the girl bowed to the mage. "Yes, my Lord Ahriman. I understand and obey your orders." Neferuaat backed into the towering shadow Pathoth cast, chastised and hesitant.

"Some wonder why we are here. What reason do the Thousand Sons make planetfall at a colony poorly defended by Imperial farmers?" Pathoth's question pried at the unknown.

"The Sons will be told in good time, Pathoth. I have my work to attend to."

The brazier's coals were extinguished, the dust from the circle swept away. Ahriman left the meditation cell with a confident air. Neferuaat came alongside Pathoth, drawing a veil of psycurium woven with bands of silver over her head. With it, her mind was hidden against the shadows and daemons capering aboard the _Khermuti_. She stared at her new teacher through the shroud with something akin to rapt adoration.

"Are you going to the surface of the planet, Lord Pathoth?"

"If I am requested, I shall."

"Will you bring me something if you do go?" A mischievous light came to her eyes.

"That depends entirely upon your comportment. We shall see the kitchens of the _Khermuti_ and what they have to offer to feed you, and then you will be moved to the _Meskhenet_. Be forewarned, you will begin as a clean slate under my tutelage."

Neferuaat nodded. She knew great things were expected of her and how it would not change with a new teacher. What she could hope for was leniency from the vizier which the grand sorcerer never offered.

* * *

_Kianemure. A pristine world. A world of creation. A place where the spirit stone weights lightly against the chest of its owner. Where expectations are not thrust on oneself by the sway of community. I came upon the maiden world from the Webway portals leading from Lugganath and felt my spirit fall into place. Here I would stay and begin anew. The Exodites were few, a handful of Eldar holding the same pioneering spirit of autonomy. I grew in the fold, waking refreshed each morning and going to sleep in the eve without the infinity circuit pressing alongside my mind._

_Then the mon-keigh arrived and Kianemure's idyllic peace changed. They, like ourselves, were pioneers but unlike us, unknowing of our existence. Some thought we should leave them be, others swore to defend what was rightfully the inheritance of the Eldar. I marked myself apart from the commune in wishing to leave the humans to be. I became the oddity amongst the outsiders of the Craftworlds._

_Fate in arduous, it follows those who flee. The drums sounded in the halls of the Exodus, calling us to war._

* * *

"If anything is fractured, your very world will be broken." The warning rang continually in Magos Krauskopf's circuit-ridden brain. He experienced no fear but calculated the heightened risk taken working under the Chaos sorcerer. The statistical rates of survival were dismal.

The Dark Mechanicum was excavating. Protected by two mountain ranges to the immediate north and southeast, the vale echoed with the ring of metal against metal. Great earth-rippers powered by daemonhosts, chained inside the rust-coloured machines, tore up swaths of loamy soil. Trees were felled and rock bored into to make way for the deepening pit, a cavernous hole growing wider and deeper by the hour. Surrounding the excavation area, untouched by polluted metal but handled by the festering corruption of the living, Tech-Priests and their Skitarii servants swarmed over the remains of old foundations. The dwellings, their original owners long vanished, worked in harmony to the growth of the forest, built around or within many of the trees and fused together by xenos compounds. Graceful arcs of the structures rose over the verdant tree line in many places. The bleached surface was like bone; the husks of wraithbone, its vitality lost with the psychic severance of the Exodites.

Overseeing the excavation on the ridge was Ahriman and Chief Magos Krauskopf. Auburn robes stained with machine oil draped the Magos' ample frame. A heavy drill supplanted Krauskopf's right arm, its point tipped in adamantium. The left side of his body was so heavily augmented none of the weakened flesh despised by the Tech-Priest remained. Indeed, the only parts still proclaiming his former humanity – itself a delicate term – were his liver and intestinal track housed within his armoured chest cavity. Directing his Skitarii via bursts of binary, Krauskopf's optical lenses whirled and clicked as he changed through various spectra. Grating out of the circular grille replacing his mouth, the Magos' voice sounded terse.

"Sonar tests indicate the shrine two miles below the earth, set in the center of the Exodite ruins. The earth-rippers will break the surface, then the more sensitive equipment will be brought into place." A mechadendrite uncoiled along his left arm, idly plucking a rock from the torn earth. "The crust of this planet isn't as thick as others. The materials left by the Eldar are odd and flimsy. No doubt the shrine is made of the same components."

"The shrine must remain intact," Ahriman ordered. "Not even a splinter will be ripped from it. Is my intent clear, Magos?"

"My machines work with finesse," Krauskopf assured the sorcerer. "They aren't lumbering colossi who exist only for destruction."

Watching the earth-rippers at task, the voracious daemon entities housed within clawing the terrain, Ahriman doubted. He left Krauskopf on the ridge, commanding he be alerted once the shrine was unearthed. Away from the clamour of the Dark Mechanicum, the command pavilion was situated on a high bluff overlooking the abandoned Exodite outpost. Past the tent, Thunderhawks and support craft waited, their metal hulls shimmering and wavering under the powerful cloaking spells. A great deal of the vale's forest lay crushed underneath the massive bulk of the Mechanicum's vessels, ships which ferried the frenetic earth-rippers and the Skitarii to the arch-sorcerer's whim.

Greeted by the impassive Rubric Marines patrolling the perimeter, Ahriman entered the command post to find Kapharon regarding a logistics map of the vale. Flickering red points on the hololith map designated where other Rubric Marines were deployed throughout the valley, the ruby light garish against the captain's gold and blue helmet. He saluted Ahriman before returning to watch the movements of his marines. Rarely away from the _Khermuti_ did the captain relish the chance to lead a task force. A bank of terminal and viewing screens across the tent relayed planetary information and security feeds; plugged into the ancient machine by spinal jacks and an optical visor, the servitor chattered away in binary. Its flesh was a ghastly pallor, wires exposed under sutures ripped open, veering on the point of death with its emaciated frame. One of Krauskopf's adepts monitored the binary stream it strewed out, set to raise the alarm if the PDF showed itself. In the center of the tent, sitting back to back on a raised platform, Ibhar and Noph held themselves in a joint trance as they directed the movements of the Rubric Marines. Other sorcerer-adepts in Ahriman's extended coven worked around the mutated cultists and Skitarii Hyspasists – basic tech-guard infantry – sorting the various Eldar artefacts uncovered.

Ahriman struck his staff on the ground. "What news do you have, captain?"

"Presently there are no indications to our activity being discovered. Though Lord Pathoth states otherwise."

Pathoth, at the very edge of Ahriman's gathering council, only chuckled. "The Eldar never renounce a planet carrying their mark. Worrying about Imperial lackeys shouldn't be our first concern, not when you consider the original inhabitants."

"As it is," Kapharon replied, "I have been charged to the overall security of this force. If you believe the Eldar will show themselves, let them come, I say. Our magic and guns can stand against them."

"Halt your petty bickering." Ahriman culled the rising tension between the Astartes. "We will have departed this world before any show themselves. It is well enough the Eldar haven't returned to claim what is sunk below the earth." The grand sorcerer looked over his cabal. "Our last Webway incursion two years ago was not without success. The Harlequin bodies we appropriated yielded their secrets in death. Their memories and emotions recalled this planet."

"An Imperial colony?" Kapharon sounded unimpressed.

"Before the Imperium renamed this world, it belonged to the Exodites. They called it Kianemure. When the Imperial numbers became too many, the wars too great, the Exodites returned to the Lugganath Craftworld from which they hailed. The Harlequins memories have betrayed their own." Ahriman's voice held the smallest ounce of haughtiness.

"Lugganath? One of the Craftworlds travelling the expanse of the Segmentum Obscurus." Pathoth knew of the Craftworld, though it lay in the shadows of its other and better-known brethren.

Ahriman inclined his head, the movement barely perceptible. "Lugganath, a Craftworld tightly bound to the Harlequins. It's common knowledge this Craftworld retains ties to these warriors. Thus, it can be assumed through the bond of their former Craftworld, the Exodites who dwelt here have ties to the Harlequin."

"You believe the Exodites left a trail leading to the Black Library. Or a pathway to return to Lugganath," the vizier pursed his lips. "If you find a way to the Craftworld, you will exploit the inhabitants into granting you access to the forbidden lore."

"Not quite, viceroy. Not to such an extent. We are on this planet solely to recover the shrine the Exodites abandoned." Ahriman smiled. "Somewhere, amongst these ruins, they sunk their precious temple over leaving it exposed to the Imperium. Rather than destroying it utterly, believing they would one day return to reclaim Kianemure."

"We plunder like filthy pirates." Even with his helmet on, the distaste radiating out from Kapharon was palpable.

"We do no plunder, captain," Ahriman admonished. "We openly take what is left behind."

"I fail to grasp how an Exodite shrine is connected to the Black Library. The aliens have many shrines." One of Ahriman's mages, Ishme-Zur, cast doubt with his words. A novice in the Thousand Sons ranks, Ishme-Zur's gift in the arcane allowed him to create and hold sway over daemonhosts, a talent of significant value.

Turning his back to the row of machines, Ahriman eyed Ishme-Zur. "Less than a century ago the Exodites fled. Shrines are kept on their Craftworlds, rarely on a world itself, noviate. Despite there being no Eldar here, Vizier Pathoth's words hold truth. We best be on guard. Continue with your surveillance, Captain Kapharon. There is to be no rest until the shrine is in my possession."

Leaving Kapharon to supervise the tactical reconnaissance, Ahriman returned to the ridge to find Magos Krauskopf absent. Viewing the progressing labour beneath him and without looking over his shoulder, the sorcerer asked, "Is there further advice you need to dispense?"

Pathoth appeared to Ahriman's left. "What is the true reason for coming to Kianemure?"

"The Eldar shrine. To contemplate what godly mysteries might be within."

"I find your words lacking."

"When my force was ambushed in the Webway, it became clear that only finding a direct route to the Black Library will I successfully enter. Kianemure could offer it. This planet harboured Exodites who brought knowledge of their Craftworld with them. Their links to Lugganath can aid in a tracing a direct path to a prize denied to me for too long. I will have what I desire."

"Should you succeed, what is the end result?" A high-pitched squeal in the vale caused Pathoth to turn. One of the earth-rippers caught a cultist skulking too close, and now its hydraulic claws ripped the human in two.

Ahriman was unaffected by the irrational machine's violence. "To claim the knowledge of the gods and return to Magnus in triumph. Have you allowed yourself to wonder of ages past when gods walked the mortal realm? We saw the might of the Primarchs, beheld the false Emperor, knew the legends behind the power of demi-gods. Yet actual deities who can twist the fabric of the cosmos hold even greater power than they did. To understand the nature of Tzeentch and complete my undertaking, I must understand the divine essence of the Eldar gods." The focal point of his staff dipped towards the excavation. "Just below the surface, a shrine houses a lockbox. Inside is an artefact, a piece to a larger relic, which even the Eldar fear. You must ask what this means for the Eldar to hold it in terror."

"And where, Tzeentch be praised, are the other fragments?"

"That is none of your concern. To join it with the other pieces is to invite a god to walk the Materium. To see this transmogrification in the flesh, to see gods walk…" Falling into a contemplative silence, Ahriman digressed. "I believe it was being carried to the Black Library. Before it could pass into the hands of the Harlequins, the Imperium came."

"Where are the other fragments, Ahzek? Magnus would yearn to know more of this Eldar relic which has escaped his notice." Uttering the name of their father would have caused lesser beings to bow, but Ahriman remained silent. "Will the shrine be brought abroad the _Khermuti_? If so, I caution against the move. You border on the sacrilegious. You always have."

"How does this action influence your theological views? To dread cast-down deities with no power or influence over us?"

"All things are interconnected. You know this best of all and to tamper with a house of the gods-"

Scoffing, the Chaos sorcerer watched the daemonic earth-rippers gouge the black soil. "Keeping the shrine close provides ample time to study its secrets. Pathoth, all thinking men are atheists. Men such as myself, who are wont to be called crazed, it is merely enlightenment I seek. Understanding, the highest truth which drives all Thousand Sons, that empowers Tzeentch. None of us follow these weakened gods. Who will stop me? There are no contenders."

* * *

_I was careless to move so close to the mon-keigh warriors. My curiosity for the oddities they display in speech and thought was my undoing. My black humour sustained me in my drunken stumble through the forests, still holding the cumbersome blade of the human officer in one hand. He struck first, I only reacted in kind. His blade became my weapon to take his head with – my life or his. The first life I have ever taken, the repulsiveness of the act galled my unusual nature. _

_His compatriots harried my flight, a bloodied trail easy to follow. I tossed the sword aside and waded into the middle of a river, letting the gods decide what would become of me. The swift current carried me from the fighting, from the savagery, from everything. A muddied embankment accepted my weary body, the pull of my spirit stone lulling my mind._

_I woke in a dwelling of the mon-keigh. The blood I had lost weakened my movement; I could not rise from the coarse sheets let alone summon strength to grasp the mug of water right. The other occupant in the dwelling notices my movement; I stiffen at the human's approach._

* * *

Mastering the minds of many required the wielder to know their own. Connected to the psyche of others allowed the puppeteer to know their innermost aspirations and dreams, weaknesses and terrors. The greater the willpower of the sorcerer, the finer control he held over the weaker. Noph prided his self-discipline; some perceived it as arrogance. Still, that was the weak-willed ego of others hungering after the strength Noph enjoyed.

Ten sets of eyes, ten different frames of reference, all held under one encompassing thought. Noph could see above and below, behind and straight ahead, to his left and right simultaneously. Others would have been disoriented by the confusing views feeding into their conscious. Noph relished the sight. Without his purpose, the movements of his Rubric Marine brethren would languish in a stupor, lives without meaning. Leading from the safety of the command tent, Noph trekked through the forest in the south-eastern portion of the vale.

Noph harnessed the strength and tactical lore from each of the automata's minds. Their dusty memories and impulses became his, right down to the sorcerer-adept's astral form sensing the outer environment against the ceramite shells. Dirt caked his armoured feet from hours of relentless patrol. Overhead the last of the twilight banded the sky red and violent hues. Birdsong pierced the deepening shadows, drowned out by the crashing of machines to the north, where the excavation continued.

Unease flashed across the collective awareness of all ten veterans when the birds fell silent. Noph staggered in the wash of psychic agony when the first Rubric Marine lost his head. The mental link wavered; Noph fought the phantasmal pain as nine sets of eyes swept the forest for his attacker. Noph commanded the Rubric Marines to fire into the forest. Under the power of the inferno rounds, trees became pulp, chunks of wood set ablaze and lighting smaller fires in the gloom.

Wailing screams ripped through the air, rising above the crackle of flames. Lasfire impacted into the Thousand Sons' left flank. Noph returned fire, suppressing the psychic wound in his mind as he gave the order to the Rubric Marines. He cycled from marine to marine to vainly catch sight of the foe, only seeing dark forest and hearing insane laughter beyond the screen of trees. Firelight caught the sheen of metal arcing toward Noph; it went dark. Unaffected by the mage's growing torment, the Rubric Marines continued targeting the swift movements of the enemy.

In brief moments of bolter fire, fabrics cut in lurid design and hypnotic colours were illuminated. Silhouettes' ghosted into the shadows, intangible and deadly as true night fell. Noph peered outward with his mind as back in the command pavilion, others watched his body tremble under the onslaught. The sorcerer-adept was desperate to grasp the form of the attackers; anything to confirm what he believed was slowly plucking out his eyes. His astral body strained to preserve control over his brethren's dwindling numbers. Noph could have broken the telepathic link at any time and fled but he stayed, watching for what so thoroughly destroyed his squad of Rubric Marines. The psychic anguish was nothing compared to what his master would do should Noph return empty-handed.

Six pairs of eyes became four. Four was whittled down to one.

The last Son fell, ancient ceramite bisected from a heavy weapon's single projectile. Noph held on to the flickering conscious of the Rubric Marine while his physical body doubled over in misery, clung to the loosening mind long enough to look from the visor and see the warrior who killed him. A Death Jester strode forward, a muted shade of jet black against the burning forest, easily holding a shrieker cannon. Slowly panning the clearing for survivors, the broad form of the Eldar raised one hand in a clenched fist. Behind the Jester, two other Harlequins held their lasrifles ready.

Noph released his hold and let his mind return safely to his body. The physical agony was intense, multiplied tenfold from what the psychic link fed him. Ahriman loomed over Noph's crumpled body. The grand sorcerer hissed, "What is out there?"

Noph wiped blood from his eyes. "Harlequins, master. They are approaching our location."

"I require details," Kapharon ordered the sorcerer-adept. His aura writhed in excitement at the prospect of battle against the Eldar. "The exact numbers, what path they are taking."

"From the southeast. I only counted three of those aliens before the telepathic link was too weak to hold." Noph ran a hand across his throat, still feeling the unknown Harlequin's blade pressed against the flesh. From Ishme-Zur came the affirmation of the gathering war host.

Ahriman tensed, comprehending for the Harlequins to advance without discovery meant a troupe Shadowseer was in their ranks. He gripped his black staff. "Recall the Rubric Marines guarding the vale. Have them stand ready to defend the dig. Magos Krauskopf, deploy the Hyspasists along the excavation front."

Krauskopf hesitated. "How many do you wish, my lord?"

"Imbecile, I require all of them. The Harlequins mustn't touch the shrine. I want their corpses littering the earth. Awaken your daemon engines and have them prepared. Ishme-Zur," an intolerant air whip-cracked through the tent, "go with the Magos and ensure the daemons do not become frenzied before it is time. Let them know Eldar souls are theirs to feast upon given the end of the battle."

Roused from his trance, Ibhar was commanded by Kapharon to direct the remaining Rubric Marines back to the northeast area of the excavation while the captain, blood thundering, bellowed for the cultists to rally. The las-weaponry of the Hyspasists was arranged along the hills of dirt, the owners of the tech-warped guns waiting. Floodlights were rotated about, the powerful beams cutting into the night, while the first sinister gurgles of the daemon engines echoed. When the Harlequins came, no matter their force – and Ahriman surmised it would be an all-out attack – they could not hide. Beyond the high mounds of muck and past the harsh lumen lights, the whine of jetbikes reverberated.

"Let the Eldar come," Ahriman muttered to himself. "None will be left on this world by the time the sun rises."

* * *

_She is odd. A 'black sheep among the white' is the common saying she uses, her lips smiling at the term. She, like I, stands apart from her race. She, unlike I, is an outcast by circumstance. Yet she doesn't join in the cause of the mon-keigh. Religion does not motivate her. The simplicity of life and the return to solitude from a governing hand is all she wishes._

_She is coarse, too forward and her mind unable to grasp the higher echelons of what all Eldar perceive, in the moment, in the hour, in the day. Plain in every sense of the word, her face is not cut from the finest marble and lacking in refined beauty. She holds none of the grace and haunting beauty of an Eldar maiden. But it is refreshing, it is different, and the divergences between us bond._

_I fell gratefully into the polarity and knew solace._

* * *

The Harlequin troupe scythed through the Chaos line with wild abandon. If a design existed to their attack then it was steeped in madness known only to the alien mind. It was a dance of death, a veritable performance where each Harlequin, affianced in their skits, somehow engaged in the wider whole. Their stage was the excavation site, screams and battle shouts the musical accompaniment, the audience none other than their opponents. Leading on one of the two jetbikes from the southeast, the troupe's Great Harlequin and three Harlequin jesters skirted the edge of the vast earthen mounds. They drew the fire of the cultists and the Dark Mechanicum. It was nothing more than a feint to allow the actual power of the Eldar to crash into the backside of the Tzeentchian company from the northern edge.

The night came alive in violence. Harlequin after-images shattered in stain glass shards, moving so fast the Skitarri could do nothing but die bleeding. They moved like sludge water against the free-flowing currents of the Harlequins. There one moment and gone the next, the merry troupe passed in flecked colour or a howl of laughter to indicate they were even there. Bodies of cultists began to pile the earthworks, the dirt soaked with despoiled blood. The Thousand Sons were only too willing in letting the weaker links of their chain to be snapped. While the Hyspasists forces lured the Harlequins out and bore the weight of the xenos assault, the Rubric Marines stationed on higher ground waited to pick off weakened adversaries. If the Skitarii fell under their inferno rounds, the matter of their demise would be resolved in the gods knowing their own.

Kapharon clashed with the Eldar along the southeast. Drawing energy from the Warp, the captain quickened his gene-enhanced body to flank a Harlequin and match its swiftness. It gaily laughed at the exhibit, bringing its graceful sword up to parry the downwards blow from the marine's chainsword. Sparks flew, raining down on to the false-face mask that grinned in derision before transforming into a shrieking maw of fanged teeth. The mask radiated simple terror, holding the Son's gaze long enough for the Eldar to kick out in mid-stride, using Kapharon's momentum to throw the Astartes forwards. Kapharon rolled with the blow, redirecting the energy and crouching on his knees before leaping back into the fight.

Growling in his throat, the captain circled the Harlequin, letting his anger build. Allowing himself to sink with the weight of his emotions, Kapharon fed off the energy it gave him. Thumbing the activation rune of his chainsword, he charged in with a low sweep of the blade, intending to cleave the Harlequin below the knees. It somersaulted backwards, the flip-belt it wore boosting the height of its jump to leap clear of Kapharon's strike. Overconfident in its ability to evade, the Harlequin failed to check its surroundings, its dramatic hurdle terminated when the psychic bindings ensnared it. Constricting the Eldar's body with crushing force, the invisible weaves held against the prisoner's thrashing.

Ibhar, left hand formed in a complex seal, only laughed at the Harlequin's vain attempts to escape while Kapharon, chainsword revving, closed the distance to the suspended foe. The false-face moved through a succession of emotions, the last image holding abject terror before Kapharon methodically severed its limbs. Ibhar released his hold on the corpse, a spray of blood and mangled appendages falling to the ground. Kapharon saluted the sorcerer-adept before rejoining the fray and Ibhar, sliding down the embankment, secured for himself the Harlequin's false-face.

On the brass deck of one of the two daemonic earth-rippers, Magos Krauskopf was phlegmatic to the carnage unfolding beneath the piston-driven legs of the colossal machine. Beneath its crab-like legs it crushed what failed to move from its path, the carcasses disappearing into the blood-drenched earth. Disproportionate in the sheer cruelty the metal-bound daemon displayed, the earth-ripper's steel claws snapped the air, seeking to rend the jetbikes and their arrogant riders in flight. The holofields employed by the Harlequins hindered the daemon machine's targeting mechanism, the frustration feeding into the earth-ripper's agitation. Its movements grew more incompatible to Krauskopf's ideal designs, and when attempts to calibrate the entity began failing, the Magos turned to the mage.

"Calm it now. Or these gnats will be all over us."

Standing on a pulpit above the Magos, Ishme-Zur chanted in a guttural tone and prayed the incantation to work. Bound to the brass outer shell housing the daemon-machine's 'soul', Ishme-Zur fought to keep the entity controlled. It drained the sorcerer to guide the fury of the daemon and shield himself from its insidious onslaught. With a soul so close to it, the daemon's hunger was voracious.

"Leftwards, turn us to toward the embankments!" The Magos' shouts were lost in the battle's din, swallowed by explosions and battle cries. "The might of my machines will turn the tide of this battle!"

Above, the high-pitched shriek of a jetbike grew as it made a strafing run. The twin-linked cannons fired accelerated disc into the brass and steel frame of the engine. Rents were torn into the metal, vile steam hissed as it escaped. An unearthly howl vibrated into the darkness, screeching against Ishme-Zur's aura. Shaking like a wild beast attempting to dislodge ticks from its skin, the earth-ripper raised its gruesome metallic arms into the air. The heavy metal limbs tore over the battlefield, four jointed legs slamming the muddy earth, and Chief Magos Krauskopf lost control of his precious daemon-engine. He gripped the railing with his left hand, mechadendrites coiling around the metal to bolster the Tech-Priest's heavy body.

The Harlequin jetbike wove and jinxed, the daemon machine's targeting arrays struggling to match the speed. Roaring in a paroxysm fit, the earth-ripped flailed about.

A lucky blow, the glancing strike from a steel claw; the jetbike and its riders tumbled from the sky. A fireball of debris rained down on the daemon-engine, super heated metal barely missing Ishme-Zur. Yet one of the riders had the impudence to survive. The troupe's Great Harlequin, throwing himself from the jetbike before its incineration, clattered in a blue-and-red checkered tumble to the daemon machine's meshed deck. Nimbly darting to his feet, the Great Harlequin's crested helm was a vivid scarlet hue, its armour gaudy and bedecked with embellishments that hurt the eye. Sensing the unwanted guest, the daemon-engine's cables punched through the lattice-worked deck, whipping out to capture the Great Harlequin.

Lightning-fast the troupe leader cut through the daemon-possessed cables, leapt over the growing numbers swarming up beneath, and struck at the earth-ripper's controller.

The force blade erupted through Ishme-Zur's chest. Gurgling in surprise, the sorcerer-adept slumped forward, held upright only by the chains binding him to the pulpit. A mist hemorrhaged from the body, disappearing into the vents of the daemonic engine, a morsel to an unending appetite. Sliding the blade free with a casual flick of its wrist, the Great Harlequin advanced on Krauskopf.

"Really now," the Chief Magos intoned with disapproval. He held firm, widening his stance as the earth-ripper followed the next logical course of action.

Freed from the sorcerous tether, the brass and steel body of the daemon attacked the unwanted alien on its back. Blackened girders unbent themselves, the metal flowing as if liquid, hurtling through the air at the Great Harlequin. Somersaulting under the arc of one, hand-springing over another, weaving aside under a third and the roiling mass of cables, the Great Harlequin still attempted to close the distance between him and the Chief Magos.

Defended by the daemon-engine, Krauskopf could afford the luxury to analyze the Great Harlequin's movements. A sluggish dodge nearly cost the Eldar his head; the ungraceful stumble only stopped from becoming a complete fall by the flip-belt he wore. The Harlequin was weakening, the daemon eating away at his psychic essence and, perceiving it, placed everything into one final, desperate gamble to bring down the altered mon-keigh. A heroic bound, lithe body twisting in mid-air, the Great Harlequin crashed full tilt into a liquid girder that swung in from a blindside. Armour cracked open against the full impact. Crashing into the chain-linked railing, the alien barely pulled himself free before the metal wrapped about him.

"Weak xeno," the Magos' vocal processor crackled. "Your suicide mission has-"

Krauskopf shouted out in abrupt pain, tearing his optics away from the Great Harlequin to look at the shuriken disc embedded in his right shoulder. That tiny movement saved the Magos' mechanical neck. Barrelling forward with the point of his sword thrust ahead, the Harlequin would have taken Krauskopf's head from his shoulders, had the Magos remained in place and the daemon-engine hadn't jutted abruptly. Even the Harlequin's legendary agility was not enough to stop the plummet from the earth-ripper.

Hitting one of the arachnid legs, the Great Harlequin's flip-belt aided only to soften a bone-breaking impact. The tremendous will of the Great Harlequin kept the leader of the troupe moving, rolling out of the colossus' path, stumbling toward the fringe of the battle. A trilling note rippled through the night to reach the surviving Harlequins ears. The battle was lost; they were powerless to capture the shrine against the greater numbers. Flight was their only option.

Krauskopf petted the interface control panel of his earth-ripper, crooning praises to the bloodied metal and exposed circuits. The daemon-engine continued its berserk charge in glee. Inspecting the extent of the damages, the Chief Magos unchained Ishme-Zur's body to let it collapse on the deck. Without a thought, Krauskopf kicked the useless spell caster from the platform of his magnificent machine, glad to be rid of the ineffectual sorcerer.

Not all the Harlequin obeyed the Great Harlequin's command. His image reflected in the mirror-mask of the troupe warlock, Ahriman opposed the Shadowseer, one fist a writhing storm of Warp energy while the other held his black staff defensively. No chances would be taken against this rival. He recalled the speed and prowess brought against him in the Webway by the warlock. But now beyond the powers of the Webway and whatever advantage the Harlequin arrogantly believed they held on the maiden world, the grand sorcerer would instruct them in a different creed.

Shifting right before darting back and to the left, the Shadowseer's image cascaded into an echo of chromatic crystals. The feint gave time for the intricate witchblade to swing through the air; Ahriman deflected the strike and made his own. Warp fire seared the air as the molten blue inferno twisted out to burn the Shadowseer. Repelling the corrupted energy to curve around him, the warlock sought an opening in the Chaos marine's mind.

The alien's distinctive aura clawed and scratched Ahriman's mind. He intrinsically knew this Shadowseer was the same he once duelled in the portal on Maharra. Tzeentch's perverted humour was sharp and refined, indeed.

Ahriman drove back the Eldar's aura, transmuting the gore-streaked terrain of the northern dig site into a nightmarish reality. Severed limbs latched on to the Shadowseer's legs and pulled the xeno into the earth. If terror coursed through the alien's blood, it remained hidden by the emotionless mask. Struggling in the sinking earth, the Harlequin embedded the witchblade in the pliable soil and held fast. Ahriman uttered an incantation, the composition of the embankment changing, hardening about the chest of the Shadowseer.

Pointing the horned-skull of his staff at the warlock, Ahriman channelled the energies of the Warp. Balefire erupted in a volcanic fury out of the churned dirt, scorching flames set to obliterate the Harlequin. Savouring the unmasked anguish from the Shadowseer, the Chaos sorcerer gleaned inner secrets from the alien in its dying moments. He knew the Shadowseer's lineage and name, witnessed memories stored away; Craftworld halls, expanses of yellow plains under a grey sky, receding shelves in a gloomy librarium—

A shadow of jet black and ivory bone hurtled out of the night and into the wychfire. The strength behind the wrenching blow crumbled the bonds encasing the Shadowseer. He was carried out of the pillar of flame, hoarsely gulping down great quantities of air as the Death Jester guarded him, shuriken cannon pointed toward Ahriman's chest. The crisp smell of burning flesh rose into the dark heavens. Lower half of his body mutilated, the upper half charred black, the Eldar nonetheless drew breath. Struggling to rise in the mix of dirt and blood, the Shadowseer weakly gripped his intricate blade.

Compressing the trigger on his shuriken cannon, the Death Jester fired a single compressed shot at the arch-sorcerer. Waving a hand at it, the swiftly spinning projectile's trajectory changed. Turning the deadly shot to one side, Ahriman sent it blindly into the northern embankments where the virulent acid, colliding into a squad of Hyspasists, caused their corporeal forms to expand and burst.

"I know you! I hold your true name in my grip!" Ahriman's voice boomed through his hellish mask. "I know your like and form. You cannot stand against my might and endure. Tonight you will all perish and I will claim the shrine beneath us."

Uttering a word in the Eldar tongue, the Death Jester strode to meet Ahriman, but found himself held back. The Shadowseer grasped the hem of the Death Jester's coat. Something passed between them; Ahriman read the wavering sentiment in the body language of the black armoured Harlequin. Its death mask's eyes bore into the ancient Chaos marine, and then the Death Jester turned and fled over the earthen works. Leaning heavily on one elbow, mirror-mask tarnished and pennants burnt, the Harlequin Shadowseer began forming one final weave.

Ahriman advanced, a shark sensing blood in the water. Powers stripped from him, the Shadowseer was undone. The Sorcerer of the Red Cyclops struck with the power of a falling star, bringing ruin to his adversary, and finishing what Maharra had begun.

* * *

"_Your return is essential. You will yield to the family's resolution in this matter." My brother's tone is silk-steel, unbending. He strays not a foot from his Path, his mind narrowed to tradition and observances and regulation. He does not drink the water given or partake of the food offered. He refuses to look at my companion._

"_I will stay," I insist. But my resolve is weakening. His methods of persuasion are many and he does not hesitate to use them. _

"_You stain our family ancestors and descendants-to-be in your dalliance here. Kianemure is to fall. Even the Exodites pull away from this maiden world to let the stinking corruption of the mon-keigh take it." A wrinkled nose, disdain; he pushes the food away. "Your return is essential. If the weight here burdens you so," a light touch to the sword at his side, "strands of would-be fate are easily cut."_

"_What would you have me do?"_

"_To tarnish such a noble blade with the blood of offal is not what I crave. I will grant you one custom from Lugganath to your soon-to-be bastard pup, to keep in confidence between us, and then you depart for home. Your fate rewrites itself."_

* * *

Osis Pathoth hadn't taken part in the excavation massacre. Not that it was beyond him to join the conflict. He keenly noted how Ahriman failed to provide him with orders and, taking that to mean his being was not required, Pathoth made himself scarce. With no one from the _Meskhenet_ on Kianemure, the vizier was allowed to go where he pleased. Let Ahriman rage when he returned. He would not dare strike Pathoth, not if he wanted to return to the Planet of the Sorcerers and gain Magnus's favour again.

Dawn light weakly filtered through the haze of smoke and crackling energies of expended magic. Even three leagues distant from the battle, the Warp's presence hung as a pall over the Exodite settlement. Pathoth followed an old path through the forest to the outlying hamlets, coming across numerous stone and timber foundations reclaimed by the woodland.

Halting before one damaged household, the roof and upper floor partially caved in and the front wall crumbling inwards, the corners of the sorcerer's lips tugged upwards. Easily stepping across the broken wall into the dwelling, the Astartes scrutinized his surroundings. Like every domicile, the basic amenities were present, though time scoured it of being habitable. Moss and ivy grew unchecked along the damp wood and cracked stone. Pathoth allowed a flight of fancy; who once lived here and why they left. A simple reading of the aether could tell the vizier the truth to the history of the abode, but in this instance he refrained.

An inquisitive mew came from the second floor. Waiting to hear the noise again, Pathoth searched for the source. The high-pitched meow repeated, plaintive in its note. Crawling out from under a sodden timber, a ginger coloured kitten stared down at the interloper, not sure what to make of the armoured creature. It sniffed the air cautiously; tail flicking back and forth before settling on a contemplative gaze. Realising it was not a simple feline, not from the blue luminescence held in its eyes, Pathoth extended one massive hand and made a clicking noise with his tongue.

"Come here." Curiosity spurred the Gyrinx kitten to creep across the beam. Without fear, the Gyrinx jumped into the open palm. Not yet feral, the Gyrinx would be easily tamed. Used as foci by Eldar, the animals empathically bonded to their owners and inherited their personalities, becoming extensions of the handlers. A perfect focus for a growing Alpha-plus psyker.

"I believe I already know the name you'll be given," Pathoth said. Meowing in what appeared to be agreement, the kitten settled as the Chaos Space Marine trekked back to the excavation site. The advisor arrived to witness the raising of the shrine.

Chief Magos Krauskopf intently watched as his great machines maneuvered a fluted shrine of wraithbone to the surface. Great bas-reliefs of the Eldar gods were etched into the organic material, entangled tree roots and clumps of mud marring its otherwise artistic perfection. Plastek cords looped around the shrine creaked as its weight was carefully lowered to the solid ground. Ahriman approached the shrine with movements akin to reverence, more for what was housed in the shrine than what the house of the gods personified. A clawed gauntlet caressed the surface. A spark of life remained in the wraithbone, a faint heartbeat slumbering deep inside.

"Rest now," the dark sorcerer whispered. "There will be much you will acquaint me with, won't there? No secrets will be kept as I come to understand you in entirety."

Weightlessness gripped Ahriman with his contact to the wraithbone. The Great Ocean tugged his body and mind under currents too strong to resist. Psychoactive reminiscences surfaced from the heart of Kianemure, will-o-wisps flickering. Sounds unheard on the Materium's plane thundered into sharp focus. Gauzy shadows of the past reached out from the Exodites and they walked alongside the present. Many Eldar paused in their work, looking in Ahriman's direction, sensing but not seeing the grand sorcerer. Sunken by the community amid a bedlam of emotion, the shrine and its lockbox languished in the retreating footsteps of the Exodites, forgotten until now.

The emotional flood stemmed and the images weakened. Ahriman returned to the present with a laugh, its sound filled with dark mirth. Ordering the shrine to be readied for transport, he returned to the headquarters to find the excavators of the dig dismantling equipment, leaving the bodies of their fallen Skitarii brethren where they lay. Cultists packed away the artefacts, servitors lifting the heavy boxes while Skitarii hollered orders in their guttural tongue. Supervising the clear out was Pathoth.

"It is pointless to ask where you hid yourself for I came out the victor, and the temple is now mine." A note of pride laced Ahriman's words. "Stored in safety aboard my vessel, its secrets will be uncovered. If you wish to partake in this all you need do is ask."

Gesturing one cultist to hurry, Pathoth replied, "My obligations as a teacher precede other trivialities now. My student will be expecting her first lesson upon my return."

A mew from the wire-meshed cage Pathoth held drew Ahriman's gaze. "What stray did you procure in your travels?" The small ball of fur hissed.

"A focus, and yes," Pathoth interjected before Ahriman spoke. "Magnus will know what's transpired on this maiden world. Rest assured, our Primarch will know of everything this day."

* * *

_We walk the halls of the Craftworld, his footsteps light at the return to strict discipline, mine heavy. The psychic specks of light of those called family, I can sense their approach. They come to praise my return without censure. My brother's blood oath to never speak of what passed on the Exodite world or of the human and the child I left behind stands firm. His adherence will cost him otherwise. His naming of my daughter is an affront to my personal honour; I am ashamed to call him kin. I am shamed in allowing the name he gave to my child go unchallenged._

_High and maniacal laughter ripples the air and tugs along the infinity circuit. Colourful pennants flutter._

"_What is that?"_

"_Tonight the Rillietann come to Lugganath in celebration. As a family, we shall learn the tales of- Taekaedr! Where are you going? Return here and give the proper obeisance to your kith and kin!"_

_I throw off his hand when he attempts to stop me. No more. I come before the troupe in the greatest of Lugganath's domed halls, I watch transfixed as they cry laughing and embellish tales in song with a cadence bordering the absurd. They cavort in circles of exaggeration and wild colour, unhindered in oaths and familial obligations. Those who threw off their Craftworlds as the Exodites; each an individual beyond what is acceptable to the Eldar; treading Paths of their own settlement. _

_I walk to them and they embrace me, welcome me into their fold._

_Fate is arduous, it follows those who flee. We have no choice but to accept it in the end. _

_My name is Taekaedr and I became Margorach, the Death Jester, leaving the shadows of Lugganath behind forever._

* * *

"Desecration, defilement! We have lost everything. We should have destroyed it before the arrival of the first mon-keigh. They should never have been allowed to lay one pound of their corrupted flesh on its hallowedness." The false-face of the Great Harlequin was thrown down in disgust. The usually stoic and quiet warrior keened, an unearthly wail expressing unnamed emotions. The survivors were bathed in ruddy dawn light, bloodied and defeated while in the smoke wreathed vale, their shrine was removed.

"We have the soul stones of our troupe. Isha bless for the family still together. They can be placed in the gardens with the other generations." Cradled in a woven pouch of synthpsy-weave, the Death Jester looked at the gemstones. They glowed, a grief tingeing their deep light; not all had been saved from the appetites' of the daemons.

"Do you not mourn for your family?"

"Now is not the time." Leaning against his heavy cannon, the Harlequin kept level-headed and practical. He suppressed the memory of a woman and unborn, ill-named child. "There's never a time to practice the mourning rites."

"Cegorach take your coldness." The Great Harlequin spat out the curse then remembered himself and breathed. "What did you make of the Chaos spawn? They are the same we met in the Webway not long ago. The sorcerer Ahriman is a plague to our race." Choking back his misery, the Great Harlequin wiped the soot from his mask which he held in his hands. "How I wish the Eldar was greater in number. How I wish Fidollarin was still with us. You could have saved him."

"He told me to leave," came the accusing reply. "I would have brought the warlock with me but he told me to leave. Do you think I do not share the same grief and burden you do, or that somehow it is less?"

"We must report to Lugganath. Let us depart-"

The Death Jester laughed humourlessly. "You must report. I severed my ties to them long ago."

"We will both return to the Craftworld." It was a statement, not a suggestion. "I know your stance on this, Taekaedr, but my will is set. You will return. We encountered these same tainted marines before. They fled, and you pursued only to lose them, and now they appear once more. I would not doubt the Seer Council would speak to you. This is not mere chance for them to come here, for you to see them again, and for this to happen."

"Who is Taekaedr? I am Margorach."

"Cegorach knows who you are, just as Lugganath knows. Family is all."

Margorach bared his teeth behind his skull mask. "I have forsaken the loyalties of those once called family. Their blood is damned."

"Blood is everything," his companion countered. "You shame yourself further yet by not following my orders."

"They shamed themselves first. Go and warn Lugganath if you want, Ehidril, I will stay and harry the Sons of Magnus." He checked the ammunition of the shuriken cannon, adjusted the flip-belt's gravitational field.

Ehidril gritted his teeth. "For what end do you commit yourself to?"

Margorach laughed. "To hunt for sport. To seek my own death. Who can say? Take our family to safety." He passed the synthpsy-woven pouch to his troupe leader. "Fate is arduous. We must have merriment wherever we can find it."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**003.M42**

**Hyeinsa, Syntychia subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

The rank stench of garbage and feces competed with the stifling heat in the bowels of Monte Iolcus Hive. Mouldy odours rose up from mulch piles as waves of heat rippled in the air. Fresh wind from the upper spires was rare, cooling the atmosphere for blessed moments until the oppressive heat returned. Mildew grew on rusted pipes while flecks of water dripped into pools of slimy filth. Even hive rats refused to drink from the scum ponds formed this far underground. Metal chutes reverberated as trash from the hive cascaded down to join with other piles. A continuous tide of refuse from the world above, scraps from Imperial denizens who never thought of or saw the drama unfolding under their feet.

Perspiration rolled down Gren's tonsured scalp. In small trickles it tracked down his neck, joining with other rivulets to snake disgustingly down his backside. The weight of the flak armour he wore did nothing to stave off the heat, the heavy fabric of olive fatigues drenched in sweat. He craved a refreshing cup of water; he would have drunk from his canteen if it were it full. Used up hours ago, the man let the bottle bang hollowly against his hip. Passing a hand over tired eyes, the Interrogator looked at the group behind him. Concealed behind one of the larger trash piles, five people waited for a servo-skull to return from its scouting mission. The reek of body sweat rolled off the others, tinged with the stink of fear.

They were being hunted.

Lost in Monte Iolcus' depths with no map and auspex broken, Gren ordered everyone to move with heightened caution. Bolt rounds were to be fired only if an enemy was openly sighted. Lasguns were to be kept charged and ready. Food was rationed in accordance to how much was truly needed. No one would play the role of a hero to die a martyr. The lives of others depended on Gren's immediate leadership. It was not a role he enjoyed.

Amara Kith splashed through a fetid puddle to squat next to Gren. Her blonde hair, twisted throughout with braids, was matted by sweat to her scalp. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. You know you aren't to blame."

"I lost the map. If I-"

"And I broke the auspex cracking it across Yunus-bek's brainpan for us to escape. Stop it. We'll all get out of here alive and make our way to the extraction point." He smiled, the gesture offset by his facial tattoo.

"If Yunus-bek and his band don't find us first," the girl added darkly. "He can sense us. He's a psyk-thug, built for things like this."

Gren swallowed his rejoinder by the arrival of his servo-skull, the tiny automaton zipping around the heaps of rubbish on its anti-gravity drive. Its return brought the group out, eagerly waiting for the information it gathered. Hastily, the servo-skull's clicks and beeps detailed what lay ahead as it wove back and forth in midair. The Interrogator's usually expressionless face constricted with anxiety.

"We move now. Everyone mark their compass point westward. Don't stop for anything. The designated landmark you need to find is a mining platform." Gren rattled off the orders while he checked his lasgun's charge. "The platform's disused but its scaffold moves up to the next level. You see it; you climb it to the next hive level where we regroup."

The urgency in Gren's voice was unmistakable. The Interrogator's team complied with speed born of years working together. Amara hefted a duffle bag over her shoulder until Gren tossed it aside. Dead weight, he explained, something no one needed as the group darted, ducked and vaulted over piles of garbage. The servo-skull led the way, scanning areas they raced through. One of their compatriots swore as his boot caught against a jagged shard of metal. Another wrenched the first's foot free, leaving the boot behind as they continue the death run.

Yunus-bek came from nowhere out of the filth, barrelling into Gren with bone-crunching intensity to drag him to the ground. Half of his face covered in dried blood, Yunus-bek's bullish features contorted in primal rage as he smashed block-like fists into Gren's flak armoured chest. Forearm raised to ward off rib-crunching blows, Gren's free hand scrabbled for the combat knife strapped to his webbing. His mind reeled from the attack's suddenness. Yunus-bek's refused his opponent any quarter. Gripping Gren's face in a calloused hand, Yunus-bek smashed the back of the Interrogator's head into the tar-black ferrocrete.

Others appeared behind the burly man, a savage gang bedecked in grey fatigues and bristling with weaponry. Whooping in perverse joy, the grunts skidded and jumped down the rusting piles of metal and filth to engage in close combat. Burnt ozone hung in the air as lasguns discharged. The heavier thud of bolt rounds echoed oddly in the depths. Engaged with their survival, Gren's underlings were unable to assist their leader.

Only Amara saw Yunus-bek brutalize him. Quick enough to escape detection and small enough to hide behind a corrugated sheet of metal, she huddled out of sight with the servo-skull. It bobbed frenetically, powerless to fight off its master's attacker. The child's vision turned scarlet. Ignoring the electronic buzz from the servo-skull Amara pushed it aside, wrenching something from the junk pile she passed. It felt heavy in her gloved hands, metal-based, but she was too busy running at Yunus-bek to think what it was. Her body moved without conscious thought. The only truth Amara knew was Gren would die if she did nothing. The unit needed him for all to survive.

She swung her weapon – a corroded pipe – at Yunus-bek's unprotected backside. Bones crunched. The pipe struck into the left side of the man's ribcage. He grunted like an animal, massive hands loosening the stranglehold around Gren's neck to see his new opponent. Chest heaving from her run, Amara raised her arms to swing the pipe again only to have it shot from her hands by a wayward lasbolt. It span uselessly through the air to land in the heaps of trash.

"I remember the first time I saw you. Puked up your whole lunch on the ship's velvet carpet." Yunus-bek laughed, his statement punctuated with a fist crashing into Amara's stomach. She twisted through the air, impacting against a compost heap. Rising from the Interrogator's prone form, the psyk-thug kept his head low and advanced on the child. "You think you can take down Lord Saeger's right hand man with a Chimera's exhaust pipe? Nice try, brat, but maybe you'd stand a chance if you took off your dog collar."

She wheezed for breath, weakly struggling with the psy-collar locked about her throat. Sweaty fingers dug at the space between skin and metal to wrench it off. She knew to never attempt to remove it – Saeger would lash her – but desperate times created desperate measures. Streaking past Yunus-bek's head, the servo-skull sharply turned and propelled itself forward to ram into the thug's cranium with its own. The brutish man snarled, lashing out at the automaton.

"Don't touch her!" Blood and saliva dribbled down Gren's mouth. He launched himself at Yunus-bek. Backhanded by the man, the Interrogator stumbled into the festering waste.

"You're both brats. Time to learn what life's like outside of the Lord Inquisitor's security. In the real Imperium, things get a little rough. Thought I was done in with the auspex, huh? Guess what, you little grox turd," he tapped the side of his skull, "the psyker in me knew where'd you be after that knock. I thank you for that, Gren. How do you want your little playmate to go down?"

The keen edge of a vibroblade caught Gren's eye. Its wicked curve could slice into ligaments and tendons, carve bones and deflesh the unfortunate under a professional's touch. A steel-toed boot kicked out, breaking Amara's right arm before the psyk-thug pressed the blade against her cheek. She smelt his breath; saw too clearly the pores on his skin, the animosity in his eyes. Seized by pure terror, the child only whimpered.

**+Unsanctioned fatality in training simulation Verant-6. The simulation will now disengage. Repeat, unsanctioned fatality in training simulation Verant-6. The simulation will now disengage.+**

Over the droning alert sweeping through the falsified bowels of Monte Iolcus Hive, a klaxon brayed. The flash of red emergency lights kept time to the deep note. Sub-routines activated. The hololothic panes flickered and died, leaving the gunmetal grey and silver panelled walls of the training deck. Vents issuing noxious smells ceased, replaced by the roar of turbines cleansing foul air and expunging the rest into the planet's atmosphere. Everything which registered to the five senses had been artificial, everything but the weaponry. The opposing units stepped aside as a medicae team raced through a bulkhead. People were beginning to register the training simulation's deviation from protocol.

Lying in a pool of widening blood, trickling to congeal in the narrow gaps between the floor panes, agents on both sides had fought and died with grim certainty. The Imperial Guardswoman Gren employed, Mora, died with her throat torn open; not before eviscerating Yunus-bek's ganger with her bayonet. Nedehv's sharpened teeth held shreds of flesh from the Guardswoman's throat.

From the viewing station, technicians monitored the vital signatures of the survivors. Gren hobbled quickly to Amara, the back of his head caked in blood, each step sending a lance of pain spiking behind his eyes. At the Interrogator's approach, Yunus-bek backed away, still holding his vibroblade. Looks were exchanged; a self-satisfied smirk from the psyk-thug unaffected by the dark intent in Gren's eyes.

"This is not good," Gren muttered to Amara, checking her broken arm. She clutched it tightly to her chest, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

"Yunus-bek." The deep baritone of Lord Inquisitor Saeger rolled over the training deck like thunder.

Right knees touched the deck; hands were splayed in the devotional sign of the Imperial aquila the moment Saeger emerged beyond the bulkhead doors. Behind the Lord Inquisitor came his honour guard, Adepta Sororitas of the Order of the Ebon Chalice, armour as black as a raven's wing, their cloaks alabaster-white. The psyk-thug bowed low, in time for his forehead to meet the strike from Saeger's polished black boot. Hurtled back, Yunus-bek crashed on to the deck, another rib broken. A silent howl of pain replaced his smirk. No one dared move or think of offering aid. Yunus-bek forced his body to move and bent one knee to his master, face averted.

"My lord?"

"By what right do you bring a blade against my acolyte? Do clarify for I wish to understand what drove you to take this training drill to such extremes. Come now, your answer." Met with silence, Saeger beat the ganger across the skull with his fist. "A hundred lashes from the electro-whip and complete submersion until near-asphyxia is your punishment. Consider it a light chastisement. You may be a penitent psyker, and you may do my bidding, but only when I say you will as the lowly hound you are, Yunus-bek."

Saeger snapped his fingers. Two Sisters grabbed Yunus-bek and dragged him away. Following their squad leader out, Yunus-bek's underlings bowed deeply when they passed Saeger. The Hereticus Lord Inquisitor did not acknowledge their existence and a silence filled the training bay.

Pacing across the floor with his snowy cloak billowing behind, Saeger bellowed, "'_Imperfections and failures in the faithful shame the God-Emperor. We cannot cast these weaknesses at His feet and pray forgiveness for we must strive to emulate Him.'_ What I witnessed in this case fills my spirit with weakness." His shadow fell over Amara and Gren. "Gren, shall I enlighten you to what your failure is?"

"The return of my unit to the extraction point without detection. The failure of the mission in which the God-Emperor deplores."

"Wrong," Saeger thundered. "You failed to make the proper choice. You did not purge your foe when the opportunity was presented. The first encounter with Yunus-bek could have ended with his death, yet you fled. Furthermore, Interrogator, you ruined your equipment, bringing about your directionless flight. Never falter; never hesitate to exact vengeance on those who would kill you. _'A man is useless if he cannot act; worse yet to flee by which he exposes himself a coward.'_ I expect to see courage in the future, Gren."

"Gren was keeping us alive! He kept us alive until Yunus-bek tried to kill him," Amara erupted in anger, refusing to watch her friend be disgraced.

Saeger's hooded eyes turned on Amara. "Were you given permission to speak, acolyte?"

"Yunus-bek deserves death. He should die. He tried to kill Gren, he almost did!"

"Silence," the Lord Inquisitor rumbled. "I am judgement in Monte Iolcus Hive. I am law across Syntychia. I am the sole voice for the whole of the Syntyche sector by which others measure their will. Do not infer you know better than I, child. Never infer."

A collective hush settled on the gathering. Furtive glances were given in Amara's direction. One of the Sisters quietly chanted a prayer for the child's forgiveness on her outburst. Let the electro-whip flay her back and let her go without nourishment for a week in penance, Amara Kith glared at the Lord Inquisitor and shook with rage. Her chest hurt from the brute's punch, her broken arm flared, yet she remained unrepentant.

"Why should Yunus-bek deserve life? He tried to kill Gren."

Saeger's eyes narrowed to slits when he saw the damaged psy-collar. It held back the girl's trivial powers, but the attempt of removing it was not lost to the elder man. Saeger's deep frown grew longer.

"What are you looking at, Lord Saeger?" Gren gingerly touched his bald pate to stop a flash of pain.

"Nothing, Gren. I am looking at utterly nothing." Saeger swept from the training bay with his honour guard.

* * *

Amara kept vigil over Gren. Her broken arm was fixed in a sling, powerful analgesics numbing the pain. The Interrogator slept quietly after his examination. The apothecary, finding no true damage that bed rest could not fix, ordered the Interrogator to remain overnight in the sanatorium. Hovering next to Amara was the servo-skull, its bionic eyes dimmed. Amara knew when she slept it would continue to guard Gren. There was no telling if Yunus-bek or one of his unsavoury cronies might attempt a reprisal.

Stifling a yawn, the girl turned to the machine. "If he wakes up, tell Gren I'm at the baptisterium."

Clicking a response, the servo-skull floated above the seat the child vacated. She was in dire need to cleanse herself in every sense of the word. After Yunus-bek came at her with his knife, the urge to wash was overpowering. What if his psychic taint infected her? Amara imagined a cloud of filth milling about her as she walked the busy halls, with everyone privy to the sight. Once she crossed the silver threshold into the baptisterium, she grew less conscious.

She went about her business in the silence of the empty vault. The chamber of the baptisterium, hewn from rough granite and free of grandiose artwork, was lit by dozens of silver candelabras. Candles' light reflected off the water's surface of the small baptismal font, water reportedly brought from the Throneworld, mined from the icy wastelands and purified in the presence of the highest Ministorum clergy.

Plaguing thoughts turned inwards. Saeger's voice came to the fore. Why had the Lord Inquisitor decreed her worthless? She hardly had the chance to become anything. Amara knew she was far from 'utterly nothing'. Being wholly useless and falling out of favour was unthinkable. How would she fulfill her vow to find Katea then? Amara Kith would prove her merit. Unbuttoning her over robe and hanging it on a peg, Amara stood before the sole font, a massive block of black marble, the double-headed eagle etched in gold at the bottom of the deep basin.

Taking the silver grail from the font's edge, she dipped it into the water and poured the cold liquid over her body. Her smock clung to a rail-thin body and a back lashed by the electro-whip more times than she cared to admit. Gren hadn't always convinced Saeger to let him take the lashings for Amara's disobedience. "Nipson anomēmata mē monan opsin," the child whispered, dousing her face in the holy water again.

The spiritual impurity pooled about her feet, dirtied water trickling into a drain. A second dousing cleaned the sweat and dirt from her face, the third sealing the Imperial trinity. Amara repeated to herself how sorry she was having gotten Gren in trouble, rocking back and forth on her feet before the font's still water. She clutched the grail, using it to anchor her thoughts. She loathed Yunus-bek. Hadn't Lord Saeger said she needed to steel her anger to have it take her far? What did she need to sacrifice to prove her worth? Touching the reinforced psy-collar, her restricting leash since first coming under the Hereticus Inquisitor's tutelage, the child hit her fist against the hard stone in an explosive outburst.

"It's not fair. Yunus-bek deserves to die," she nearly screeched into the darkness of the empty baptisterium. Awkwardly, Amara dried herself best she could with her good arm and left the baptismal font. Reciting a final benediction to the God-Emperor she left, only to find a Sister waiting beyond the baptisterium.

The woman curtly nodded before speaking, "Amara Kith, Lord Saeger will see you." Pivoting on her heel, the Sister of Battle marched away, leaving Amara to follow her quick pace. In the Inquisitor Palace, situated on the tallest spire of Monte Iolcus Hive, its inhabitants were afforded a wondrous view of the world beneath them. Close to the stratosphere, Amara saw space barges lower to the docking yards, viewed stately yachts of the spire nobility, and watched the forming of polluted thunderstorms wrack the lower hive levels.

The Inquisitor Lord held court in the grandest of chambers. Behind doors panelled in gold, emblazoned with portraits of Imperial saints, Saeger waited. Monte Iolcus Hiveguard opened the richly detailed doors, admitting Amara and the Sister of Battle before closing them firmly. Saeger's offices were palatial in splendour for the people he held audience with. The need to impress upon supplicants' his power was paramount. Gold veins threaded the highly polished black marble floor, reflecting the people who walked across it. Oil paintings worth more than what many made in a single lifetime graced the walls with Humanity's pious. Above, the ceiling was a frieze of the God-Emperor battling the Primordial Enemy, Horus's body crushed under a golden foot.

Upon a thick blood red carpet, Saeger sat behind a grand desk from which he dispensed judgement. Parchments spilled over the table where, quill held in one ink-stained hand, Saeger furiously composed letters on sheaves of vellum. At the same time he dictated orders to one of his scribes. Cherub servitors flew on high, depositing correspondences and quickly removing parchment on the desk, carrying thuribles which spilled incense smoke into the air.

"My lord," the Sister bowed. "Your noviate's arrived."

Saeger placed his quill down. The great windows behind him showed the resplendent night sky of Hyeinsa. The Sisters of the Ebon Chalice flanking the Lord Inquisitor stood at attention. Ministorum clerks and petitioners, Sisters of Battle and servants, all halted and on a silent command Amara never heard, departed the chamber. Saeger's doom-laden gaze pinned Amara in place.

"Amara Kith," his voice made her tremble. "The God-Emperor calls you to a higher task. It is an undertaking of vast, singular importance wherein the wheels of justice across this sector will be put into motion. Any weakness in you shall compel the strength of your spirit to grow. The betrayals against you will be paid in the blood of others."

The girl's chest swelled. Here was the chance to affirm her worth to the Lord Inquisitor. "What do I need to do?"

"You trust your educator, do you not?" Saeger came round his desk, the hem of his white cloak swishing.

"I do, Lord Saeger. I was in the wrong today, but I see that now."

"'_Without will we are nothing. The Emperor's Will guides us. Through His wisdom, we avenge the hallowed blood of innocents.'_ The God-Emperor's chosen you for this unique obligation. No one else can do it, child."

Amara's green eyes glittered. "Will it help in my revenge?"

"Certainly, dear girl," Saeger's smile was benign, his countenance the opposite of that morning. "Nothing's done blindly in the service of the Emperor and His Imperium. For what comes next, you must have implicit trust in my actions."

Someone came through the door. A null-sense hood came down over her head before she saw who it was. Blinded and silenced, the girl instinctively thrashed until Saeger's heavy hand descended on her shoulder. Stilling herself, Amara was picked up and carried a short distance. She deduced it to be a Sister of Battle when her hands touched curved armour; then something pricked the back of her neck. Sleep claimed Amara, and when she woke, it was to a warm and fatherly voice quietly droning.

"The delicate process of genetic splicing takes much time, effort and various resources. In our work to create weapons against the enemies of Mankind, the Adeptus Astartes rank chief in this fold." The chirurgeon, face hidden behind a surgical mask and goggles, spoke in unfamiliar terms. "Lesser warriors are made based around the same principles of combining various genetic sequences from tissue samples. For the case of the subject brought before us, she will be the first."

Amara, blinded by a tripod of light, was held to a surgical slab by metal restraints. The powerful blend of drugs given through intravenous feed stopped the natural process of panic and fear. Her thoughts were muddled. Passing into a soporific sleep, she seemed frail to the arachnid mechadendrites sprouting over the shoulders of the chirurgeon, each point holding a surgical tool with refinement.

"This task won't be simple," the chirurgeon continued to the few sitting in the medicae amphitheatre. "We aren't merely cutting out the innate ability of what makes this child a psyker, we are replacing it with a nullifying facility. In a spiritual sense, we shall carve a hole into the essence of a being, a pure hole devoid of corruption for the Emperor's work. By the Imperator's Will, let this undertaking be blessed."

Surgery began quietly. Saeger's apothecaries and chirurgeon focused on reshaping the genetic map and manipulations in mind and flesh. They worked a mixture of alchemy and science, a grand machination of two realms meeting as one in Amara's body. Re-forged on the very atomic level, her blood was vacuumed out of her frail body, readmitted after undergoing its own unique treatment. Her heart suspended in a state of undeath; the finesse lasers of neurosurgery sliced into the white folds of her brain.

In states of abscission, body carved open and her genetic coding modified, Saeger shadowed Amara in protection. The gestation laboratory where he stood sentinel was suffused in a calm blue glow, the readout screens on the databanks and hums of the machine-spirits the only sounds in the enclosed chamber. A hiss of pressurized air from the single entryway admitted the primarius chirurgeon.

"You keep a man of my station waiting longer than he should." Saeger scowled at the individual. Hidden in the thick red and white robes of his vocation and old beyond his years, the man moved as though he were young and spry. Tapping out rune codes with deft fingers which wielded a las-scalpel with extreme precision, the chirurgeon examined complex charts and numbers. Opposite him and housed within a medicae tank, the young pre-pubescent girl floated.

"She's come along remarkably well, taking right to the genetic coding. In all intent and purpose, this is a success. The first engineered Pariah, every molecule fine-tuned to her body." He cross-examined another set of papers. "With training she'll be able to use the null ability at will. Liken it to a lumen turning on and off, if you will forgive the crude comparison, Lord Saeger. All she need do is focalizing – perhaps a trigger word or a passage which gears her to use the ability without knowing she's shaping it into being."

Saeger gazed at Amara suspended in the chemical mixture, breathing through an apparatus as needles pin-cushioned her body. "The passage of Saint Deretimus springs to mind. A long time coming to fruition, these Pariah gene experimentations. We have to establish the ability works before Amara is placed in harm's way. In my great experience, one needs to see it effectively used to hail it as a result, Caphis."

The older man tutted. "Don't look to me. I merely work the flesh, muscle and bone. Do you know how difficult it was to use the limited genetic material for this?"

"Of course I know." Saeger's tone was hard ice. "How rare it is to find the Pariah gene in this far-flung empire. To imagine the cost of its extraction from the Culexus Temple..." He touched his golden aquila broach. How many of his agents, seeded with skill, hadn't returned from their mission? "I need this to work. Such an effective weapon to bring against Chaos, a righteous force unopposed."

"Similar to the fabled Sisters of Silence and the lore surrounding them?"

"Aye." Saeger bowed his head at the mention of the once elite sisterhood. "Their blood would have been used but with your consultation, a Blank's encoding isn't as effective in terms of brute force as a Pariah's. Amara will be a hammer to use against the heretic, her body the weapon against worshippers of false gods. She is the path which leads to the arch-heretic and by means which my crusade will render justice."

Caphis's liver-spotted hands made the sign of the aquila. "I pity her. I was there, administering her and her cousin, and now to be involved in this... God-Emperor, if she ever knows my involvement-"

"She never will," Saeger promised. "Remember your oath given as Inno died. You take everything to your grave, Caphis."

In states of perception, Amara's sense of time was grossly displaced. Weightlessness accompanied her whenever she walked around the small medical chamber. Four white walls became her world; she never questioned 'why' to Saeger's will in this arrangement. One morning when she woke the sling on her arm was gone. An evening when she opened her eyes, a tattoo inked in gold of the Imperial aquila adorned the underside of her left arm. The greatest thing she noticed was the sudden absence one day of her psy-collar. Her questions to its removal went unanswered by the hooded aides. She never saw their faces.

Each time she slumbered, something changed, noted in increments' when Amara regained consciousness. Something was being pulled from her with utter certainty. Colours grew flatter and sharp sounds became muted. Even the taste of the nutrient paste grew bland on her tongue, its once pungent odour no longer noted. She traced the surgical scars on her brow and wondered how they came to be there. Other times, her senses returned to a state of normalcy but never to when she wore that hateful collar.

The final time Amara woke in her small cell, Saeger waited at the open door. Wizened features fixed the child. He beckoned her to follow. Amara did, letting Saeger bridge the silence. He explained she was now a human purged of psychic capacity. It its place, twined to her very core, was the rendered opposite of what was vile and hateful to the Imperium. Her test, the Lord Inquisitor declared, was to scrutinize her ability. She accepted the knowledge with the proper devotion of an Imperial servant having purpose. They stopped before a door covered in holy parchments and golden wards.

"Converse with the penitent," Lord Saeger pressed a simple button on the wall. The door slid open. "Remember the catechisms of Saint Deretimus to vent your wrath into his mind. He shall repent."

Carved into the psyker's forehead, blood still drying, the Imperial aquila reminded Amara of the one branded on her. The man was a skeleton held together by old skin and the barest trace of muscles, a too-weak chest rising and falling in ponderous breath. He smelt horrible, of the corruption in all heretics and unwashed for days. Despite the frailty of his body, his eyes burned with fire. Amara remembered the same blaze in Katea's. Hunched over his sleeping pallet, the abused human twisted his feeble neck upward to greet the child entering his cell.

"They send a child to do the work of men." He mockingly made the sign of the aquila. "Do you even think for yourself, girl, or do the bidding of masters hidden behind glass and smoke without conscious thought?"

Amara began her catechetic recitation. "_'The daemon and warp spawn have become your fathers, and you carry out the daemon's desires...'_" The pallid colour of the man drained away when the girl looked upon him. He curled into himself. She no longer smelt him as she had when entering the prison.

"They bring a witchling," he cackled, head lolling back. "A witchling against a servant of the True Gods! The irony of your actions speaks louder than the screams of the condemned! I know you hear me beyond these walls, I know, _I know_!"

"'_When the daemon lies, it speaks its native language, for it is a liar and the father of all falsehoods. Because you have rejected the word of the God-Emperor, He has rejected you.'_" Blisters appeared on the man's weathered skin, widening red eruptions he scratched at with dirty fingernails. Amara no longer heard her voice, deafened to sound and the heretic's wails as he beat his palms against his brow.

"I die in truth, a truth you fail to see!" Froth flecked the psyker's mouth as his eyes bulged, the light bleeding away in rivulets down his cheeks. Colour leeched from Amara's vision; the only shade remaining was the burning vitality of his eyes.

"'_Yet because I tell the truth, you do not believe me. In nomine Imperator Rex et spiritus vindicare!'_"

"It burns, you burn, you damned child you burn everything about me!"

The man's flesh smoked under the null-pressure. Hands covered his face to hold it together. Amara continued her recitation, watching as the psyker kicked and thrashed and died slowly, burning up inside. It ended when he finally laid still, his body curled into a blackened foetal position. Only then did she fall silent and, sluggishly, her senses returned.

Bits of flesh flaked off the heretic's corpse as a servitor dragged it away. Amara imagined what she could do to Yunus-bek given the opportunity, and liking the vision, smiled. Her mind considered a grander dream. To turn this ability on the armoured nightmares who abducted Katea and complete her revenge. Her failed promise could be put to rights. She smiled at Saeger when he came. He reciprocated with pride and admiration written on his aged face.

"Another training simulation is underway, Amara Kith. I believe you will be far more capable for this next one."

* * *

"Check the Monte Iolcus Hive levels B-64 through E-12. She couldn't have gone far from the hive. A global scan of Hyeinsa and the surrounding hives shows nothing." The comm-link in the Interrogator's ear beeped once in confirmation before going dead. Gren's contacts, scattered throughout Monte Iolcus, set off in their duties. Exhaling quietly, Gren removed the comm-bead and leaned back in his chair. He stared blankly at the screens before him. Each displayed a live view in the various parts of Monte Iolcus Hive, none which remotely interested Gren.

A solid month of fruitless searches yielded nothing. Last seen in the hospice, Amara simply vanished after that. The security logs brought up nothing. Gren held a healthy suspicion the recordings had undergone tampering. He suspected foul play as the worst case, the psyk-thug being the obvious candidate. Yet the man and his ilk were off-world before Amara's disappearance. Personal informants confirmed this. If murder was not a probable solution, abduction was the only explanation. Only unmasking the miscreant remained. Once Gren solved who it was, the individual would be very much dead.

Pressure welled up behind his eyes, the beginning of a stress-induced migraine. A specific vox-chime sounded. Automatically reaching out to activate the message, Gren was notified the Lord Inquisitor would see him immediately. A concerned whine from the servo-skull, always close to its master, drew a smile from the man. The Interrogator looked hellish. Dishevelled and with little sleep, dark circles ringed his eyes. Faint scars and discoloured bruises still existed from the psyk-thug's attack.

"I know what the meeting pertains to and even without sleep, my resolution is firm. I won't be coerced by anyone."

Leaving his rooms in the Inquisitor Palace, Gren quickly made for his master's offices. The swelling crowd of supplicants, barred by the Monte Iolcus Hiveguard, hissed disapproval when Gren threaded through them with ease, allowed entry to the inner sanctum of the Lord Inquisitor. Respectfully, those of Saeger's entourage let the Interrogator pass until he stood before his teacher. Touching a hand to his forehead, then to his chest, Gren waited. Not many were present; Inquisitors currently on Hyeinsa were in attendance as was the Cardinal Astral of the Syntychia subsector. Witnesses to the moment when Gren would join the fold of the Inquisition.

Gren thought Saeger's timing was the worst. Gren hadn't bothered coming dressed in his finest, his simple black habit offset in its plainness by Saeger's ornamented garb. Wearing a red cape trimmed in black ermine fur, the joints of Saeger's power armour whirred quietly as one arm rose in benediction. Lord Inquisitor Saeger appeared every inch the regal ruler in all but name of the Syntyche sector.

"Your tenure as an Interrogator under my guiding hand is coming to a close. Your future is bright in service of the Imperium and the God-Emperor's vision for Mankind. Gren, it will be with pride for the Ordo Hereticus when I ordain you into its ranks."

"I haven't decided upon the Ordo Hereticus, my lord." Spoken without hesitation, Gren met the other's eyes unflinchingly.

Saeger's beatific smile vanished under his white beard. "Pray to the saints' boy, what ordo _are_ you considering?"

"The Ordo Xenos has need." Whispers swept through the assembly. A knowing look or two passed between Inquisitors while the Sisters of the Ebon Chalice remained stoic.

"The threat within is the greatest faced by Mankind!" Saeger's open hand balled into a fist, a single finger pointed at his student. "The foul xenos can be purged by the Astartes, by the Guardsmen, by those who openly take arms in vigilantism against their encroachment. You will be a Hereticus man, so I decree it, Gren!"

He expected this. Gren thought of all possibilities to save face, decided against it, and settled on a blunt answer. "You have always allowed me to speak my mind. I will not shirk from it now. My application stands for the Ordo Xenos."

"I forbid it."

"Is this anger directed at the fact you would no longer have reign over my actions, Lord Saeger?" The words caused one Inquisitor to chortle before turning it into a coughing fit. Another tisked at Gren's choice of words.

The Lord Inquisitor's face became a mask. "We will speak further on this at a later time. This is your last task as my Interrogator. Should you fail, as my other pupils who fell in the line of duty, you will surely be forgotten. Pray you do not, Gren, for the Inquisition will be made the worse for it."

* * *

Once more, the rank stench of garbage and feces. Again, the mouldy odours. Together with the relentless heat, Monte Iolcus Hive endeared itself to those hidden in piles of trash. Only now the hunt was real, as tangible as the polluted sewage and garbage festering under layers deep and miles high of steel and iron. In the swollen intestines of the underhive, a war game in the L-16 hub was tracked from the Inquisitor Palace, distantly removed from its verdict.

Survive. Each action undertaken, no matter how abhorrent or vile, sanctioned. Twelve hours in which to live or die, to attack or defend, but with the ultimate goal to stay alive. That was Lord Inquisitor Saeger's edict before sending both teams out into a no-man's land, where even scavenger bands did not travel.

The servo-skull patrolled the perimeter of the chosen base site. Gren and his pitifully small unit dug in, fortifying. A small location hidden in the larger detritus of the hive's garbage, cobbled together from rusted wires and barrels. The fuel contents sloshed inside as they were rolled into position. Huddled in the lee of two gaping corridors, wide enough for a Rhino to pass, the fort was easy to miss. The roadways, one curving westward and the other north, had barricades deployed in criss-cross segments. Should Yunus-bek's team sweep though the area in their search, Gren's team might escape detection. If not, the cordons on the cracked ferrocrete could hold opposition long enough for the heavy stubber gun to be used.

Indebted to Hager, a man as heavy-looking as the gun he carried; Gren ensured the others held their lasrifles ready. Each person checked their flak armour and reserve ammunition.

The Interrogator's decision to wait might have seemed cowardly to some, but to others it was an obvious tactic. The chances of being found by Yunus-bek were sharply decreased if they masked themselves. Lay low, keep silent, remain hidden; simple plans rarely collapsed unlike the complex. Creating a base, even one where catwalks above allowed for quick escape routes, offered a better chance to outlast the competition. The ladders, unsound metal soldered together hastily, provided the sole way up to the scaffolding.

Saeger had recalled Yunus-bek's team for this death game. The psyk-thug mimed a bolt hole through the Interrogator forehead when he caught Gren looking at him. Glancing down at the chronometer set into his sleeve's cuff, Gren tapped the glowing blue readout. 0754 hours. Less than five hours until this ordeal was over. All of them could leave alive. He hated the thought of having someone else die; Mora's death clung under his skin, an unwanted weight and memory.

"Movement on the west road," the sentry whispered across the vox-link. Weapons raised in unison, safety locks disengaged with harsh clicks. The heavy stubber ground about on its pedestal to face its target. Something crested the road and piles of trash, the servo-skull leading—

Gren held back from darting from cover. He never held miracles in high regard, but he breathed a heartfelt prayer as Amara Kith walked around the rusted wreckage and cordons. She cautiously followed the servo-skull in the underhive bowels. Somehow, though the guidance of the Emperor, she was here, looking the same when Gren last saw her. One of the team called for her to halt; coded signs flashed back and forth before Amara was admitted into the security beyond the barricade. She found herself suffocated by Gren, her face scrunched against his flak armour.

"Emperor's grace, you're back." Gren examined her closely. He patted Amara down for tracking devices or injuries. "I have questions, but first and foremost, where did you come from? Who took you? _Where_ did they take you?"

Amara became reclusive. "I came from... the N-hub, I think? I can't remember much. I started walking, moving up since there's nowhere else to go. I met no problems. See, I'm armed." As proof, she showed a slug gun. "But I don't know who gave it to me. How long was I gone for?"

"A month." Gren saw the disbelief on her face.

"A month? Are we in the training simulation again?"

Hager spat over the barricade wall, leaning on the heavy stubber. "Far from it. Everything's real this time, kid, and you'd count your blessings for finding us before Yunus-bek found you. They're out there hunting us again."

The name brought a scowl to Amara's lips. While she drank and ate, Gren informed Amara what had transpired in the month since she vanished. The Interrogator kept her close and engaged in simple conversation, hoping to draw her out. She replied in clipped tones, keeping her thoughts guarded. Everyone's intent was similar, who knew if and where the psyk-thug was close enough to hear them. As though the thought invoked Yunus-bek, it happened.

"Light shattered, rampant scum in the machine. I repeat, light shattered-" The vox-link dissolved in white noise, sentry dead.

The attack happened instantly. Gren froze. Hager yelled, bringing his heavy stubber round to face the northern tunnel. The throaty roar of motorbikes filled the air, sending wild reverberations across the underhive. Overunned, they were overrunned. Gren was powerless to stop it. Readying his lasrifle and taking a position close to Hager's heavy stubber, Gren sighted down the northern corridor.

Only the bikes were not using the cracked roadways. Evading the barricades, the opposing troops were driving their heavy motorbikes over the high waves of wreckage.

Gren yelled the retreat across the vox, knowing it was death to remain and fight. The unit complied save Hager who, bold and wanting to settle Mora's death, continued firing the heavy stubber. The first motorbike revved over the wall of debris. Its ganger occupant gave a mad war cry, a flaming bottle held in one hand. Smashing it against the heavy weapon, both gun and Hager became an inferno. Hager screamed defiantly, hands fused to the stubber's triggers, bleeding the gun dry in death. Gren emptied his lasrifle's pack while running, throwing the weapon away when its cell died. Amara kept pace next to him and tried not to show her fear.

Pushing Amara ahead of him, Gren threw the child at one of the ladders. He barked the order for her to climb. The stench of diesel tainted the hive air as more motorbikes careened into the base. Amara swore when her stub gun fell from her hand, tumbling uselessly into the garbage. Fires raged unchecked across the fort, detonating the fuel-laden canisters. A bristling wave of heat and deadly shrapnel exploded in all directions. Amara cried shrilly and nearly lost her footing on the ladder. She pitched to the side before straightening and continuing her ascent.

Gren saw the psyk-thug register their climb up the ladder. "Keep going," he panted to Amara, pulling himself up. She was already safe on the hive scaffolding, looking at the butchery beneath her feet. The fire entranced her, terrified her and held her in place. "Get higher. Keep running, you stupid girl!"

Light of Terra, none of them would make it. Nobody would survive. The Interrogator had no idea where his team was. Below was a charnel house where friend and foe were difficult to distinguish. The ladder shook; Gren looked down to see Yunus-bek climbing. Hoisting himself over the edge of the scaffold, Gren impelled Amara to move quickly. A meaty fist latched on Gren's ankle. The Interrogator looked down in shock at Yunus-bek's bestial face. He kicked for the man's head with his free leg, missed and tumbled on his back. Yunus-bek came at Gren, all reasoning lost under the psychic clamour in the man's bloodshot eyes. Madness held sway over him, insanity driven by the need to win, the competitive urge let loose until absolute oblivion of his target was achieved. Yunus-bek smashed a heavy knuckle downwards. Gren managed to twist his head away from the first blow, barely dodge the second, caught by the third. His nose cracked and bled under the assault.

Adrenaline flooded Gren's body. Unaware he was moving, the Interrogator pulled back his left fist and delivered a haymaker blow, breaking Yunus-bek's jaw. A bone snapped in his own hand. Yunus-bek howled in fury. The bastard was tough, his bulky frame absorbing everything. Amara, spurred to action, jumped Yunus-bek. Her hands struggled to encircle his neck and choke the life from him.

She mouthed words Gren never heard over the fire's roar, a litany or prayer. Her actions, whatever they were, caused Yunus-bek to erupt on to a new plane of psychosis. She leapt off him, tumbling awkwardly to the catwalk. Yunus-bek grunted, unbalanced as changes spread across his body. He was burning, blazing fiercely inside. He ripped open his flak vest to expose bleeding sores erupting under his flesh. He crashed against the railing of the catwalk, screaming as liquid fire coursed though him. Amara heaved herself to her feet with a ludicrous grin, charging the psyk-thug. He was the only thing she focused on in the unbound chaos.

A simple push, a final touch, and the deed was done.

Heartbeats measured the psyk-thug fall. Yunus-bek's team watched transfixed; Gren's were held by shock. Yunus-bek fell until rusted pipes caught him, cruel barbs spitting him like a wild boar, tearing into flesh and muscle. Flayed alive, the psyk-thug dangled as the smoke from the fire choked whatever life remained in him, dripping blood sizzling in the flames.

Yunus-bek, the right hand of Saeger, was dead. High on the rusted skywalk, a child grinned and peered over the edge on cut hands and knees. Gren was safe. Amara Kith limped over to where her hero was, watching him pull himself upright, wiping the dried blood from his nose. Long moments passed until Gren found the proper words.

"You killed him. Are you happy?"

Amara nodded. "Yes. He was trying to kill you. I couldn't let him do that."

The affirmation in her eyes sickened the Interrogator. Gren raised a hand to slap Amara before, realising what he was about to do, lowered his arm. "You shouldn't have done that. When word of this reaches Lord Saeger, he will... you've placed yourself in a precarious situation, Amara."

In silence they descended. On the ground, Gren's unit gathered to him while Yunus-bek's kept their distance. The Interrogator watched them, the shadows twisting and dancing as the flames continued to smoulder. Presently, the roar of a transport vehicle rumbled in the confines of the underhive. Cresting a ridge of slag, a Rhino bearing the Inquisitorial Seal appeared, headlights shining across the murky gloom. Stopping before Gren's combatants, the ramp dropped with three Sisters of Battle emerging. Gren pushed Amara behind him as the battle maidens marched swiftly to them.

"We are here for the child, Interrogator. Give her over and there will be no need for punishment." The lead Sister's hand fell meaningfully to the chainsword at her waist. Amara broke away from Gren and went to the Sisters of Battle. Escorted quickly into the Rhino, Amara peered over her shoulder once before the ramp closed. Engines gunned; the sound ominous as the transport rolled away. The Interrogator let the heat of the engines wash over his sweat-soaked form. Watching the Rhino move off, his lips curled slightly. His servo-skull floated alongside, gibbering.

"No, I would have panicked before. There's no need to now." A questioning beep. Twisting his hand, the Interrogator held up a palm-sized auspex. "They didn't bother to check if she had a tracer on her. I can follow her this time."

Others volunteered but Gren went alone, giving strict orders for his team to make it back to the hive proper. Taking one of the functioning motorbikes, he hunted the Sororitas Rhino while the sensor led the way. Flying alongside the motorbike, the servo-skull followed its master. The duo passed forgotten tunnels and ruined junctions in Iolcus's depths, pursuing the Rhino into areas which hadn't seen true light in centuries. The path forward was uncomplicated with the Rhino, far ahead, having cleared the way of debris.

The path fell away beneath the pale headlights. Gren broke suddenly, the motorbike's tyres squealing in protest. He hurled himself from the saddle of the machine. Rolling on the ferrocrete, flak armour giving little protection, Gren saw the motorbike plummet down and crash into the lower plate three hundred feet below. Gulping in lungfuls of stale air, the Interrogator quietened his breath, resolving the uneven rhythm of his heart.

Wiping dried sweat and grit from his face, Gren quietly laughed. "The Emperor protects."

The servo-skull's eyes provided the only light this deep underground. By it Gren saw the depression before him. A true pit where half-collapsed buildings rotted and refuse piles grew, stanchions and support pillars half-buckled under the massive weight they held. Not a sound was heard of the Rhino. He consulted his auspex, the thermal bloom that was Amara stationary.

"She's here somewhere," he muttered, drawing out his bolt pistol. Skirting the lip of the mammoth pit with his familiar, the Interrogator halted when he felt the flow of cool air cut across the wall of heat. A fresh wind from above was impossible this far below; he followed the stream and was led to a large series of turbines. They spun lazily, housed behind thick wire mesh. For these to be operational while the rest of the hive fell into neglect meant someone required their existence. The barest frame of a plan formed. Knowing there was little time, Gren knelt and withdrew from his webbing's satchel an arcane device. Not manufactured by Imperial hands, certainly not something an Inquisitor-to-be should have, he held it carefully.

"A gift from friends," he answered when the servo-skull clicked. "Now, there is something only you can do for me. Ready to hear the plan?"

Pincer claws took the xenos apparatus. Given its commands, the servo-skull powered over the direct center of the pit. Gren stared hard at the auspex in his hand, then across at the automaton which dutifully waited. Exhaling a deep breath, the Interrogator thumbed the detonation switch of the alien device. He winced as the full-force of the electromagnetic pulse was unleashed. The wave destroyed the security network it undeniably encountered, washing away pict-feeds and audio receptors, drowning a world of machines with routines and sub-routines into nothingness. The discharged wave caused the auspex screen in his hand to crack, components fried. Gren marked the place where his servo-skull fell into the pit, its internal processors destroyed. If luck were on his side, he would return and claim it.

The turbines stopped. Approaching the mesh with a small cutting torch in hand, Gren worked quickly. Peeling back a corner of the thick interlocking wires, he slid under them and into the expansive tunnel behind the turbines. Then, not knowing where he was going, Gren started down the ventilation shaft.

* * *

Before the electromagnetic pulse triggered far above, Lord Inquisitor Saeger was in conference with Caphis. The pict-feeds of Yunus-bek's death proved Amara Kith's capability to work under extreme duress. In the chirurgeon's office of test tubes and databanks, the men reviewed the battle knowledge. The young girl was sequestered in the gestation laboratory, held within the medicae vat after her physical assessment.

Chirurgeon Caphis bore grave tidings. "An issue has arisen, one I didn't foresee."

Saeger's eyes sparked. "What did you find?"

Caphis proffered a data-slate. Snatched from his hand, the chirurgeon began to shake. It took effort to keep the quiver from his voice. "The degeneration of her cellular structure, it appears. Every time she utilizes the ability, her cells decay. The longer the child uses it, the more rapidly the putrefaction spreads to infect other cells in her body. This response physically manifests with her vital organs aging at an accelerated pace." He dabbed at his brow. "It could also move to be seen physically, should she use it extensively. The only effective way to treat it is for Amara Kith to undergo rejuvenate treatments."

"Is there a means by which this can be halted?"

Caphis found his palms sweaty. "No, I cannot. The gene sequence has finished encoding. You're asking to rip out everything in the child until not even her original DNA remains. The subject's life will be terminated if you decide upon that. She'll have to undergo rejuvenate treatments to sustain herself for the duration of her... life. However long that will be for."

"What if she's too far from a source?" Caphis visibly jumped when Saeger's gloved fist slammed down on the metal tabletop. "An Inquisitor can be far from the civilized worlds of the Imperium. It takes decades to return to proper Imperial-held space. Shall I have her age and die, all the time and effort put into this for naught?"

Caphis winced under the verbal barrage. "What would you have me do, my lord?"

"Find a solution." Saeger gripped the chirurgeon's collar, dragging him close enough for flecks of spit to pattern Caphis's face. "You shall find a solution. I will provide the means necessary. You will undoubtedly discern a solution to this vexing problem."

"Injections," Caphis coughed the sudden answer from a dry mouth. "She can receive injections to off-set the decay until she reaches a proper medicae center for correct treatment. It would-"

The blue lights died, the medicae ward and the underground bunker plunged into darkness as klaxons wailed. Saeger's breath caught in his throat, senses alert. His laspistol found its way into his hand. Apprehensive minutes passed until the klaxons were silenced. Emergency lights flickered to life, banishing shadows into the deep corners of the room. The chamber was bathed in a troubling red glow. Over Saeger's protected vox-channel the first reports came in, indicating a forced entry into the complex.

"Make these injections possible," Saeger uttered, releasing Caphis's collar. "Do what you need to, but make these a reality." He left to take command; issuing orders to have Inquisitorial storm troopers seal the compound and secure the perimeter.

Shaken by the sudden disorder to his highly structured world, the chirurgeon scuttled into the gestation chambers, searching for supplies by the weak light. Caphis reacted poorly in times of crises. His once steady hands shook while gathering tumblers and cell sheets, vials and needles. Floating in quiet stupor, Amara was blissfully ignorant to events beyond the glass of the medicae tank. Caphis wondered if she dreamed, revisiting memories of the fire-burnt cell she had been pulled from, the way she was sent tumbling into the reinforced cage with the other psykers or even—

"Keep quiet and don't move. If you do, you'll be dead. Understand?" The bolt pistol's cold muzzle pressed against Caphis's temple. The chirurgeon's frantic movements stilled, hands slowly raised. Feeling the pressure ease, the older man watched one much younger circle around, gun trained on him. The stranger in sweat-stained fatigues and flak armour drew up close to the medicae container, free hand brushing along the console. Sudden disorder now became complete turmoil. Caphis's tremors returned.

"How did you get in here?" His eyes darted about the chamber until he saw the broken air duct. "Oh," he chuckled, looking again at the man. "You're Lord Saeger's student. Did he summon you here?" The man's face twisted upon hearing the Lord Inquisitor's name. Realising his mistake, Caphis blanched. "Spare this old soul. I only did as I was ordered!"

"Get her out of this thing," the Interrogator ordered, brandishing his sidearm.

"I cannot do that," the chirurgeon's fear of Lord Saeger was greater than his Interrogator. "She's in the middle of a delicate process."

"Get her out of there right now!" Roaring the words, Gren brandished his bolt pistol and advanced on Caphis. Under the red lightning, the Interrogator's face contorted into a daemon. "So help me if you don't remove her from that container your brains will be spattered on the wall!"

"There is the famous anger an Inquisitor should have. Well done, Gren, exceedingly well done." Saeger's voice brushed through the air. His laspistol jabbed into the small of Gren's back. Engrossed with Caphis, Gren forgot his surroundings. Saeger, hiding beyond the laboratory for the intruder to reveal themselves, watched Gren willingly place his neck into the snare. The Interrogator spat on the floor in fury.

"What's happening here? What alchemy is being done?"

Saeger's voice becalmed the rising storm of emotions. "You must make a choice. Forcing you in difficult decision making has always been your flaw. I cite a perfect example: why do you think Yunus-bek attacked you whenever the opportunity presented itself? Would he have the nerve unless ordered by his superior?"

Gren cursed his failure to perceive it earlier. Too blinded by the concern of others well-being, he hadn't delved into other possibilities. "You told him to."

"To press you into making difficult decisions. Death is always the last option you consider, never the first, and yet when pressed who bore the brunt of taking someone's life? Amara did. It was never intended for her to kill him. That was solely meant for you. Yunus-bek was hiver scum and worse, a relapsed psyker. He served whatever cause I gave him and when that was finished, he served with his death." Saeger allowed a pause. "Her lost innocence is your burden, Gren."

"And what is this now? Why is she in here?"

Snarling at his Interrogator's words, Saeger jammed the barrel of his laspistol to Gren's temple. "Some things are best left unknown. Mind your next words."

"Will she be unharmed?"

"'_A child's purity is compromised only by the weakness in others_.' You have the makings of one of the finest pupils ever schooled by myself." Saeger laughed. "I kept back nothing which was profitable to you. Now it is time to make a grave choice with your schooling."

"What might it require?" Dead weight in his hand, Gren allowed his bolt pistol to drop to the floor. It clattered hollowly on the metal.

"You are presented with two choices, young man. The first is after you become a member of the Ordo Xenos, you shall continue to toil under my hand in secret. The second, should you refuse the first, is to take this elegantly crafted pistol I have pressed against your head and use it on Amara. I would hate to have you make a choice but," Saeger smiled, "life is inherently full of complex choices."

* * *

The Gren she knew and the one standing before her were vastly different people. The change in attire had little to do with it. Armoured in a fine set of black carapace trimmed in silver, a cloak of mail drawn over his left shoulder and a laspistol at his waist, Gren became the quintessential dashing image of the Holy Ordos. Emblazoned on the chest plate of his armour was the sigil of the Inquisition. His tonsured hair was oiled to a fine sheen, tattoo freshly inscribed, and face healed of blemishes or bruises. How he comported himself was another. The air surrounding him was restless, posture no longer relaxed. When he smiled, it unsettled Amara how it never reached his eyes and lit them.

"How do I look?" Gren turned from the mirror and gave a small flourish with his cape.

"Like an Inquisitor," Amara replied blandly.

"You could feign excitement for today. It won't kill you." The light counter failed without Gren's smile. In his stateroom, time falling away before his rise to the ranks of the Holy Ordos, Amara wanted to greedily keep every second to herself.

"I'll try to smile for Lord Saeger. He wants to make a show of it." Before her surgical procedure, the depth of emotion Amara felt when looking at Gren was endless. The worship of a hero who never faltered against the odds, someone she trusted in the gravest of situations. Now those emotions felt withered, as though partitioned. It should have disturbed her but the child did not know how to name the complex knot of sentiments in her head or heart.

"I brought you something." Forced cheer weighted Gren's steps as he crossed the room. Opening a small strongbox, he pulled out his deactivated servo-skull. Thumbing the switch under the occipital bone, the automaton activated, floating toward the girl. "I had to modify a few parts, but it's the same as before. Take care of it for me."

Amara clutched the servo-skull protectively. She started protesting when the sharp rap of armoured knuckles on wood announced the Monte Iolcus Hiveguard, come to collect Gren. Ranks closed around the Interrogator and child, escorting them to the main lift which brought them to the highest spire plaza. Ordered rows of Inquisitors and their entourages, of Adepta Sororitas and high-ranking Ecclesiarchy, of privileged spire nobility, waited before a viewing stand. Ringed off by mighty plinths, chemical fires burned at the tops while the black and gold pennants of the Inquisition snapped in the wind. Dusk fell. Lord Inquisitor Saeger raised his hands to the star-lit night, finishing a sermon.

Gren hugged Amara. "I will always protect you. Never doubt that, Amara." Impulsive words, a heavy promise. Lord Inquisitor Saeger called his Interrogator's name. The applause from the assembled was unbound. Many knew the man when he first came to Monte Iolcus Hive as a boy. As many called him friend now. Gren ascended the platform and the host of new responsibilities' awaiting him.

He knelt to accept the rosette of office. The most powerful weapon an Inquisitor held in their arsenal, now belonging to a member of the Ordo Xenos. Illustrious speeches were given, a blessing to the masses, then the people began to disperse. The servo-skull was tightly held in thin arms, Amara's last tenuous link to Gren as he descended the steps of the viewing stand. Lord Inquisitor Saeger, towering in his power armour, was already conversing with Gren to the details of his first mission.

"An Imperial colony was plundered a year ago by Chaos Space Marines…"

Amara noted the ever faithful Selina gazing at the newly-made Inquisitor with delight. Jealously blazed hotly in Amara, enough to rip the ragged doll from the prophetess' hands and fling it over the edge of the spire. Then the intensity of the sentiment waned to nothing. A trio of retreating backs was to Amara, who stood alone and utterly forgotten.

She looked up at the blazing night sky above the Monte Iolcus Hive. Wavering pollution caused stars to wink in and out of existence. Crouching with only the servo-skull to lean her weight against, Amara swallowed the building emptiness she felt. The God-Emperor listened to all prayers, did He not? Were her prayers able to reach him now? Or was she incapable of being heard, with the hollowness inside her denying His power? Not having an answer, Amara Kith knew only the regret of her hasty decision.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**022.M42**

**Isfarena, Eliator subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

"Mother says it's here. She never lies to us." Klauss, voice confident, led the way in the catacombs.

He held the small torch that illuminated the tall sinister corridors. Rais, without a light of his own, followed hurriedly not to be left in pitch black. The smell of moisture and steady drip of water indicated they were far underground, perhaps below the bedrock of the great river. How close or far they were from the Grand Cathedral of Saint Gilles was lost to the young boys, but the all-encompassing darkness clarified Rais's fear of enclosures.

Rais's breathing was laboured. A complaint formed on his tongue but stilled on his lips. Klauss would hit him again if he whined. Not only that, he would tell the Mother, and Rais hated that more than following his brother in the tunnels below the hive. "How do you know it's here? I thought the saint's bones were in the reliquary."

"Those are fake. Copies made for the real ones to be left alone. Want to know how I learned this?" Rais, curiosity piqued, voiced an affirmative. "Mother told me the truth. The genuine truth the cardinals keep silent about, or don't even know. Remember those stories father told, how Saint Gilles defeated witches of Chaos and closed the Damnation Vortex?"

Of course Rais knew. Every child on Isfarena knew the tale after their first communion vows. "I remember. I'm not stupid."

Klauss grinned over his shoulder, a too-thin face framed by a shock of black hair. "Gilles died after he sealed Chaos. He didn't live for another century and become a priest like we were taught. Caught in the powers of Chaos, the closing gateway ate away at him until only his holy bones remained. Most think his bones were collected and housed in the silver casket in the reliquary. But the truth is-"

Caught up in the immersive tale, Klauss misjudged his step. The story floor, slick with moss and rivulets of water, slanted unexpectedly and the boy fell. Skidding away into the eerie shadows, Klauss lost his grip on the electric torch, crying out as he tumbled. Rais screamed after his brother, snatching the fallen torch up and casting the weak light ahead frantically. He did not want to be left alone down in the tunnels, never alone. Calling out again, the younger brother made his way down the treacherous incline, one shaking hand clinging to the wet stone wall. When the yellow pool of light fell on Klauss' prone form, Rais started to cry. Grabbing his elder brother by the shoulder Rais jostled him. A hand came up to swat the boy aside.

"Get off me," his brother grumbled. "I'm not dead. Mother said we would be fine and look, I am." Patting himself down to prove his point, Klauss stood. A wince betrayed the pain of bloodied knees and scrapped palms. Klauss took back the torch.

"Watch your step," Rais mumbled, chastised and embarrassed.

"If you stop crying, I'll tell you the rest of the story." Limping slightly, Klauss followed the curve of the high passage. The air felt thicker the further they walked, oppressive to breathe and tinged with a smell neither could place. Rais pursued his brother and the light, pushing greasy locks of dark hair from his pale face.

"Okay," Rais wiped his nose on the dirty cuff of his tunic. "Why are Saint Gilles bones not the real ones in the casket?"

"Because the priests realised if they removed the bones the gateway would open again."

Shocked by the revelation, Rais stopped. Klauss, sensing his younger brother's halt, turned to stare at him. "Hey, why are you stopping?"

"We shouldn't remove the bones, Klauss. We need to leave them." The torchlight's beam flashed in Rais's face. Without seeing Klauss, Rais knew his brother sneered at the thought of abandoning their mission.

"Why is that? Why should we believe the lies of the Ecclesiarchy? Do you remember what they did to mother when she went to be healed? Do you even remember how long she screamed? I'm sick and tired of listening to lies." Klauss was twelve years old and knew the church's doctrine to witches and heretics. His mother hadn't been either. The priest condemned her as one. Rais, only nine, never wanted to revisit those memories.

"But if what Mother says is true and the gateway opens again, we'll be killing people. Think of what could… come out." Thin hands seized Klauss' arm. "Imagine what might catch and drag us into the abyss." His active imagination filled with visions of fire and brimstone the cardinals warned of from their great pulpits of gold.

"You idiot, we're not removing all the bones! She only wants one, not the stupid skeleton. Think things through for once." Klauss thumped Rais on the head. "Now you wonder why you're never told anything and I am. We owe it to Mother after she saved us and father. Do you want to go back to eating sewage rats and pawing through open graves?"

"N-no, not really." Remembering nights curled up in fear and not knowing what morning could bring, Rais knew his life was better, thanks to the Mother's benefaction. What would Rais not do in her name to serve?

"She promised us more. Much more than anyone on Isfarena can give us. I trust her words and do this for her. If you're grateful you'll help, too."

Cowed by Klauss hard words, Rais dropped his head and slunk after his brother. Very soon the two arrived at the doorway the Mother had detailed earlier. Cast in bronze and rusted by age, the unadorned surface was inscribed with a passage in High Gothic worn down by time. The lock, a plain keyhole found by the torch's light, waited to be turned. Rais withdrew the baroque key the Mother had given him earlier from the pouch around his neck. Fitting it into the opening, the boy turned the key counter clockwise and felt the mortise lock give way.

Mechanical tumblers activated, hidden doors seals unlatched and cogs turned. The doors swung inwards, expelling a gust of cold and foul air that caused the brothers to cough. When the fetid wind and grime settled, Klauss and Rais peered inside the sepulchre to the finding resting place of Saint Gilles. Down steps covered in undisturbed dust, the sunken chamber yawned before the children's tiny forms. They stepped inside, the feeble light of the torch unable to pierce the shadows as in the hallway.

"Klauss," Rais whispered as they moved into the darkness, leaving the open doorway behind. "If these bones are so important, why can't Mother come and get them herself?"

He felt the need to whisper. Rais worried his presence and Klauss's would awaken whatever slumbered here, the story of the Damnation Vortex at the forefront of his mind. A child's imagination was a dangerous thing. Caught by entities in the Warp, it was the greatest toy a daemon hoped for. Something in the air felt that and formed from power given, a sluggish awareness rudely woken by two boys following orders. Something came to watch them from the ceiling, hidden behind thick cobwebs and crumbling masonry.

"Because of the seals." With the light's weak beam Klauss pointed at their feet. An enormous double-headed aquila, blood-red garnet against a sea of black marble, was embossed on the floor. In minute detail golden script written in the same High Gothic patterned the marble, moving in whorls and triagrams. "The seals stop her from entering and touching the bones, but they don't stop us. It's because she said we're special. We're chosen."

They crossed the enclosed plaza with the light showing the way. On the other side, lying on a platform fashioned from the same black marble, a stone sarcophagus lay. Inside laid the remains of a holy being, a selfless man who gave his life for others to live. Klauss and Rais felt none of the holiness in the remains of a saint. Features chiselled to resemble the dead saint on the top of the grave; both children looked at Gilles' likeness for long moments before nodding to each other. Klauss propped the torchlight on the floor. Hands gripped one corner of the coffin. Strength born from deep resolve, the brothers braced to move the upper portion of the sarcophagus aside. Straining and pushing, sweat rolling down their faces from the exertion, marble grated against marble. A small opening was created, large enough for a child's arm to reach in and pluck out a thigh bone. Held aloft by Rais, the saint's bone looked like any other in the torch's dim light, yellowed by age and browned by dust.

The darkness which was not darkness inhaled sharply. Even Klauss heard the dry rattle and knew it was not in his mind.

"Let's get out of here," Klauss hissed, looking over his shoulder at the walls. Whatever consciousness he thought was listening when they entered, Klauss felt it sharpen now. Eyes tracked their movements like a vulpine predator watching a lamb far away from the herd. Something poised in the air, malicious and waiting to be freed.

"Do you think Mother will be happy when we bring her this? Do you think she'll smile?" Hurried back up the steps and through the door, Rais clutched the thigh bone not from reverence and what it meant to billions, but what it meant for himself and Klauss. With this bone, their future was assured. With this course of action, they were liberated of Isfarena, from the lies of the Ecclesiarchy and the control of the hateful Imperium.

"She'll smile," Klauss replied. Careful to remove the key, he waited for the doors to shut before speaking again. "We need to get back. Just imagine it now, Rais. We get to travel to the stars. We get to see distant planets and suns."

"Will we even see more of those warriors like the one following Mother around? The quiet knight in gold and blue?"

Even after the tumblers locked into place and the cogs fell silent, the feeling of being scrutinized did not abate. If anything, it grew as Klauss and Rais retreated back the way they came. Klauss quickened his pace, sometimes risking a glance over his shoulder as Rais chattered on. The Mother often said daemons lurked in the dark and one day, once the final light in the universe winked out of existence, they would all be set free.

* * *

Composed of five great subsectors, the Syntyche sector had been part of the immense Segmentum Obscurus as far back as surviving histories wrote. Syntychia, Japhia, Eliator, Huldah, and Mizar; overflowing with wealth and populated by the Emperor's faithful subjects. Syntyche stood at the edge of the Segmentum; rediscovered after Old Night the people did not resist the call to join the Imperium. Spared the lash and given a caring hand, it blossomed under the harsh watch of its many sector, subsector, and planetary governors. Even after the Horus Heresy, the Syntyche sector was an ideal model of a functional, sane jurisdiction.

How quickly the maggots spread unchecked, worming deep into millennia of rot infested structures. Quietly, ever so quietly, the infestation spread across all of Syntyche to corrupt what it touched. The Great Awakening undid centuries of peace, the sparking cataclysm needed for the Ruinous Powers to rear its many heads. The sector was slowly failing. Lord Inquisitor Saeger registered its death throes from the numerous reports received daily. The cards of the divine Imperial Tarot did not grant him peace. The quelling nausea gripping Saeger made him summon the prophetess to discern an answer.

"Is this necessary?" Interrogator Amara Kith watched as Selina was led into the western chapel by her caretaker. "We have other methods to detect the decay in the sector, my Lord Saeger. The diocese, the information feeds, satellite-"

"Requiring precious time, days and weeks better spent burning the heretics from their burrows. To dally too long will cause them to dig deeper and hide." Surrounded by his coterie, Lord Inquisitor Saeger rubbed a thumb across his aquila brooch. He ignored the curl of the Interrogator's lip. "Selina's methods are effective. She has never been wrong."

The prophetess' white garb contrasted with the black granite of the sunken circle she was led down to. With no gentleness, Selina was shackled inside the rune-inscribed seal of the chapel. The small house of prayer was known to few in the Inquisitor's Palace and with good reason. Saeger kept it for the prophetess' divinitations, allowing his innermost warband to hear what the witch plucked from the future. While others drew close to the diviner, kneeling passively within the circle, Amara kept back. The unchanged visage of the child who accosted her on the Black Ships years ago raised Amara's hackles. She stayed away from the prophetess who crooned to bare walls and rocked her rag doll like a baby.

"Selina," the caretaker, a woman blind in one eye, whispered. "It is time. Let the God-Emperor guide your voice and be your eyes in the void."

Willingly Selina dropped her head, letting her powers take her to visions of what were and what could be. Her eyes became milky pools, the witching sight fully awakened. "The rot is great, Lord Inquisitor. So great," her utterance rose shrilly to the chapel's buttressed ceiling. "You have let it in. It will overrun all of Syntyche. You should not have welcomed it."

Concerned murmurs from the clergy were imminent. Unafraid of the prophetess, Saeger knelt outside the circle on the polished marble floor. "Where is the rot, witch? I demand to know. Where does the taint fester so I may strike it from existence?"

"Tasha says it is here and there." Selina gurgled. "It could be said to grow at Isfarena. The wondrous holy world of Saint Gilles now teems with sinners." Snapping against the iron manacles with a strength not her own, the tiny prophetess rose to her feet giggling. "Oh, mother dearest why do you leave us without our children? Why do you take them from our bosom?"

"Witch, where is the rot bred from at Isfarena? Has it infected the very sanctuary of Gilles?"

"Mother, they want to know! Will you tell Tasha for me?" Selina cocked her head to one side, as though listening to a distant voice. "Yes, yes. Of course, they will know." Soulless orbs seemed to isolate Amara from the crowd. "They lie in their warm beds and next to their hearths with Saint Gilles, but Gilles is worthless and his power stripped from his home. It is no longer his abode."

"The cultists have broken open the reliquary of the saint?" Confessor Dimitri exclaimed in shock. Saint Gilles, protector of Isfarena. Saint Gilles, who banished daemons with a mere touch and closed a Warp gate destroying the planet. Saint Gilles, now desecrated by the same powers he defeated hundreds of year before.

"No, no, no." The prophetess was vexed. Her head lolled. "It was opened with care for the power inside. Bones, chalk white bones, carved up and cast anew. Cast anew as the mother wishes it! All for the children, the wonderful little lambs to slaughter. Isn't it grand, Tasha? They don't see it like we do. Oh no, they never do. The gate will open again, opening wider and wider to let loose the filth!"

Nothing more was said by the diminutive girl. Powers spent from the exhausting séance, Selina was unchained and carefully led away. Given surety by the prophetess's words and where to stem the blood flow of Syntyche, the Lord Inquisitor wasted no time. His fleet was raised as the might of the feared Inquisition turned toward Isfarena. Into the heart of the fray Saeger led the charge.

Now, standing out in the rain before the Grand Cathedral of Saint Gilles, where Chaos maggots perverted its sanctity, the Approbator found she loathed being sent based off the words of a child-witch who never aged a day.

The sacellum was colossal. Its ramparts rose up from churned and muddied earth to pierce the dark heavens. Fortifications crowned by heavy gun batteries, it was less a palace of worship and more a grand fortress. Once inhabited by the pious, its bishop was long dead with sinners treading its halls and a madman for a leader directing their footsteps. As the history of Saint Gilles espoused, his church was built atop the remnants of the Warp gate he courageously sealed. Amara blanched to think if the cultists knew the history or had the means to open the gate again. Stretching out below the great cathedral, the abased hive's buildings crowded close. Tightly pressed, no distinction was made where one dwelling began and another ended. A sea of plascrete and light blue glass offset the drab grey. The sluggish river girdling the eastern battlements was swollen with bodies of cultists and Imperial defenders alike.

Across the river, Amara saw all of this from the platform she and a dozen others occupied. Under her feet, the PDF and the Sisters of Battle mobilized on a hastily cleared parade ground. Fumes from the Rhinos and Immolators choked the heavy air. Further out from the unhallowed church spire, the corpse-filled water emptied out into the bay. Crammed with rusting boats and over laden barges left derelict, the blue-grey of the ocean remained hidden. Beyond were the naval yards, left in a similar state of disrepair and just as silent. Isfarena was truly a world given to the Dark Powers rot.

Amara wondered how Saeger would take the cathedral. Two immediate options came to mind. Sunder the main gate of the cathedral and rip its defences open or raze it to the ground. Knowing Lord Saeger's brutal methodology, Amara believed everything save the foundations would be put to the torch. Her servo-skull quietly clicked an inquiry.

"He'll use fire to smoke them out," she replied absently. "Why else would he bring so many Sisters of Battle?" Amara drew her grey cloak tighter, covering the ebon flexible duty armour she wore. Her high black boots were covered in the inescapable mud of the planet. She frowned at the dirtied gold toecaps. "Those women use fire to cleanse everything. I don't think they can live a day without burning something."

The Order of the Ebon Chalice came in force. Their presence was everywhere in the Lord Inquisitor's camp, black and white armoured women ready to commit themselves body, heart and soul against Chaos. Such fanatical devotion was awe-inspiring. Squads from the Ebon Chalice kept themselves apart from the Planetary Defence Force, whispering hymnals and inspecting their weaponry. Turning her back on the cathedral, Amara made for Saeger's temporary headquarters. Inside the drab olive pavilion, the Interrogator found Saeger's ever-present honour guard at attention while he and Canoness Preceptor Loren discussed stratagem. Having met the Canoness a handful of times previously, Amara stood apart from Loren. Commanding a thousand Sisters, Loren was a hard woman whose concept of mercy ended at the point of a sword. Even the melancholic Confessor Dimitri was better company who, at the moment, was to the left of the Lord Inquisitor.

"An attack on multiple fronts will be used to smite the cultists. To destroy the infection on this planet, we will cut into the roots and expose them to the light." Saeger pointed at key locations on the three dimensional map. Ghostly red lights marked scouted weaknesses of the great church and hive. All Amara saw were the maze of tunnels the heretics used for access to and from the cathedral. "The PDF will attack the main gates of the hive and move up the central road. They will be supported by fully half of the Ebon Chalice's task force, led by the Canoness Preceptor. This will draw the majority of the heretics' strength out to defend the walls."

"What if heavy resistance is encountered?" The query came from a man dwarfed in the presence of the Lord Inquisitor and Canoness Preceptor. Amara glanced at the ostentatious uniform, deducing him to be the PDF commander. "There's no official count to the number of heretics or what weapons and vehicles they might have. While the PDF stands ready to assault the cathedral, Lord Inquisitor, with respect it is better to know what we'll be facing."

"Should you meet resistance, Commander, you will direct your men to drive their tanks over the heretics' bodies and put the purity of the flame to their skins. The God-Emperor will not allow our mighty force to crumble in the liberation of Saint Gilles' resting place." Canoness Preceptor Loren smiled. Her pug-scarred face twisted oddly. An augmetic replaced her right eye, the skin surrounding it disfigured so horrifically no hair grew along that portion of her head.

"Yes, Ma'am," the PDF commander saluted dutifully. "The faith of my men is never in question."

Seeing his acolyte hover at the entry of the command tent, Saeger beckoned her to his side. Amara Kith attended her master, servo-skull hovering at her left shoulder. She quietly waited to see where someone of her aptitude would be placed in this campaign, or at all. Lord Inquisitor Saeger was hesitant to risk Amara Kith since her last field operation. The hololith map rotated, magnifying on the upper tiers of the great structure.

"The second strike, working jointly at the same time as the first, will descend from the skies. I will personally lead them, moving from the top of the church's spire downwards. The Seraphim squads shall provide support. As for the final group, squads of Battle Sisters will infiltrate from below." The warren of tunnels beneath the hive and great church flashed a deep red, an intricate web of veins leading to the heart. "All three parties will converge upon the center of the cathedral. It is there the last cultist will be slain."

"What do we know of the heretics here?" Amara Kith's voice, new to the assembled war conference, drew looks.

"A cult of reasonable power which employs foul sorcery to control the populace," Confessor Dimitri's gruff tone reached all gathered. Bushy grey brows knitted together. "Their worship is centered on a being called 'Dark Mother'. They openly chant the name out loud. The reek of their false god of sorcery is here, apparent in all actions undertaken by the cultists."

Sorcery, the bane of pious men and the mark of nightmares. Amara's gloved hands closed into fists at the mention of the word. The Confessor's diocese, extensive across the Syntyche sector, also doubled as a spy network for Saeger. Dimitri knew the spiritual pulse of the subsectors or once claimed to. To have missed the festering at Isfarena was a personal mark of shame. Following the fleet to this world, Dimitri claimed he would not leave until the last heretic was burnt and their name penned in his codex of damned souls.

Saeger smoothed back his white hair and divulged quietly to Amara and Dimitri, "We have found the rampant corruption in the sector. We shall destroy the cult of the Dark Mother in a single strike. For this, our souls must be stalwart and our views unopposed. Pray for strength from the God-Emperor."

"Take care not to disturb the Warp's currents surrounding you, Euleus." Confessor Dimitri touched his bulbous nose. "Chaos's taint will bring many to their knees this day with its foul devilry polluting the air. I sense it."

"I know the perils of the Warp and how it binds me, Confessor. I need not your reminder to acknowledge what I have spent fighting every waking moment of my life." Saeger's hand rested on the pommel of his force sword absently, reflecting on the power he could channel through the blade. "Amara, you will command one of the Sister squads and take the underground paths. I trust you have learnt since your last independent venture?"

"Unquestionably, Lord Saeger." She gripped the hilt of her sword, allowed to keep the alien-forged blade only by the grace of her master. "Point me in the direction of the errant witches and your will is done."

A consummate leader, Saeger turned again to those gathered. "_'Where there be prophecies, they shall fail; where there be tongues, they shall cease; where there shall be knowledge, it shall vanish away.'_ Today, the mark of Chaos on Isfarena dies. Prepare the faithful. We attack before the next cycle."

* * *

Out of the nine, she knew only the Sister Superior's name. That was enough. Not because Amara wanted to, but out of necessity. It was prudent to vox Sister Superior Taryn and have her convey the orders. Amara Kith's long-running habit of not asking names until the mission was complete served her in the past. A name created familiarity. That bred acquaintanceship. In her various missions, such liabilities hampered the goal. After, if anyone survived, then it was safe to know the names and faces under the helms.

"Sister Taryn," one of the battle maiden's voxed. "We should move northward."

"Negative," Taryn shook her head. Like the other Sisters, her helmet covered her face. Her only distinguishing trait was the power sword she carried. "We hold until the Interrogator chooses the path. Milady Kith, have you decided?"

Amara Kith stood at the junction of three tunnels. Her brow furrowed in deep thought as she attempted to deduce the best path forward. The stale air in the passage was cold and smelt of decayed plants, her glass rebreather cycling most of the foullness from her lungs. To her immediate left, the tunnel curled down. Straight ahead, the path hurled into the gloom. Rightmost, the course gently sloped upward. Her squad's departure from headquarters coincided with the beginning of the attacks against the Great Cathedral of Saint Gilles. Hopefully as the enemies rushed into battle above, the way below would be freed of the heretics' presence. With auspex and map, the squad met no challenges.

Until the junction's appearance, an impetuous crossroads not indicated on the map.

A heavy sigh escaped Amara, echoed by her servo-skull that held a lantern to diffuse the shadows. Taking a card tucked inside her glove – a pattern of six swords – she held it for a moment in the light before letting it drop. Fluttering through the air, the card came to rest face up under the lintel of the leftmost tunnel.

"We head left," she indicated the direction with a nod of her head, stooping to pick up the card.

"We entrust our future to the lay of a card, milady? The Emperor's-"

"The Emperor's Will guides us via the card. It chose left, so we go left." An afterthought came to mind as she prepared her bolt pistol. "The air's undoubtedly laced with foul magic. These tunnels are ensorcelled by witches amongst the cult's ranks. That's why the pathways didn't appear on the map. Trust my judgement, Sister Taryn."

Taryn signalled her squad to move. Amara Kith, Sister Superior Taryn and a Battle Sister clenching a flamer led the way. Boltguns racked as the advancing Sisters formed a wedge, the final Sister securing their backs carrying the precious storm bolter. The tunnel's declination increased as the cold settled over the Sororitas and Interrogator.

Tunnel walls switched between ancient brickwork and natural cavern, narrow enough that only two could walk abreast. The jingle of rosary beads against armour, the scuff of footsteps against wet stone, the hiss of the igniter flame were the only sounds in the darkness. It soon became monotonous, placing one foot in front of the other, striding ahead without a challenge. From the comm-bead in her ear, Amara heard some of the warriors muttering litanies. Prayers grew in force when they passed graffiti chalked on the walls, a myriad of curses and profanities against the Emperor. A small thought, dredged from years of harsh training, whispered insistently.

Amara voxed Taryn, "Sister Taryn, how long have we been walking?"

The woman viewed her helm's built-in chrono. "Under two hours, milady."

"It feels longer. It feels like we haven't gone anywhere," Amara remarked. "Ask the others if they have noted anything odd."

The Battle Sister keyed the concerns to the squad. Each replied in clipped tones they felt unaffected, glory to Him on Terra. Amara kept her guard raised and bolt pistol trained forward. The notion of displaced time intensified in her mind, even as the soggy atmosphere of the passageway attested their trek under the river. Embarking over the bridge spanning the river took less time than what they experienced now. A quick consultation of the map drew further suspicion. Perhaps if they continued their advance, the tunnel would empty out ahead. Keep the pace, resist calling a halt. The path will link to others. Trust the map and auspex, blessed machine spirits incapable of lies.

No, the Interrogator thought. This was not right.

Amara mind slipped into an altered state honed through precise training. Five senses withered as another blossomed. Striding ahead of the group, the Sororitas' voices dulled and the servo-skull's light bleached, Amara hesitated a moment before whirling about. She saw through the subtle perception spell to the wielder keeping pace with them. She saw everything with painful clarity, sprinting back through the loosely-formed ranks. Fear in the cultist's eyes, a tremble in his arms holding the staff, the vile symbol incised into his forehead. Amara witnessed all of it, her hand sliding to her sword's hilt to draw the blade, making the silver edge keen through the air in a murderous arc.

Unready for a decapitated head to come flying into vision, one of the less stalwart Sisters let loose a torrent of words. "Emperor's teat! By the Golden Throne, what the fug was that?!"

"Who profaned?" Taryn snarled. "Who took His name in blasphemy?!"

"It was Sister-"

"Silence," Amara Kith overrode the Sister Superior's command. "Mete out your penance later." Nudging the headless body with her foot, she hissed at the dead man and what he represented. Somewhere at the junction he had wormed his way in. The Sisters crowded around the felled enemy, unconsciously keeping a wide berth from the Interrogator.

"Shield yourselves, Sisters," Taryn advised. "We soon confront the enemy. _Ave Imperator, avete vos_."

The battle maidens moved quickly, Taryn ordering the Sister with the heavy storm bolter to lead. Rising gradually, the passageway led through a series of turns to empty out into new tunnels. No occupants were sighted or bio scans chimed on the auspex. Another corner was reached, and Amara was about to withdraw her inner silence when the lead Sister pulled the trigger of her weapon. Heavy rounds lanced through the air, bolts impacting into stone and cultists alike.

Retribution was unleashed. The Sisters of Battle met their foe. In the cramped underground confines, the cultists' screams of "Mother" gave them strength to charge. Even dying, their rage was terrible to behold against the Sisters pious fury. Crude blades and rebar cudgels failed to stop the battle maidens, protected by blessed power armour. Sister Superior Taryn's power sword severed corrupted limbs from weak bodies, her warriors' guns finding targets in the thick press. It was soon over, bloody mist soaking the air and white mantles of the Ebon Chalice.

"So now we come to it," one of the Ebon Chalice uttered. "From here forward, we tread on the backs of the dead."

A grim portent; two Battle Sisters died in the next clash. Amara Kith knew the squad had successfully crossed under the river and reached the hive's tunnels by two markers. The foremost being the stonework hallway ended at a heavy plasteel door, closed and electromagnetically locked. The second and more obvious were the heretics guarding the portcullis. Lasfire and bolter rounds chewed up the thick stone while cultists shouted the alarm. Amara's servo-skull nearly became a mess of gears and electronics if it hadn't reversed its anti-gravity drive. It dove around the corner the Imperial force now sheltered behind, taking its light with it.

"Burn their filth from existence," Taryn barked to the flamer-wielding Sister.

Amara blanched as the torrent of flames washed down the corridor. The lick of the intense heat and stone walls reminded her of a distant cell that nearly became her tomb. Promethium flame bathed the corridor, clearing the way for the Emperor's servants. Falling back, the first Sister let the others give covering fire. As the flames flickered amid the cultists front ranks, the second wave stepped forward over the dead. Fearless, their faith shielding them against the corrupted mortals, the Order of the Ebon Chalice brought death to the tainted.

Sister Superior Taryn charged, black armour reflecting the fire's light as her blade hacked apart the traitors. Cleaving the loose ranks, Taryn stabbed into the chest of a man, pivoting on the ball of her foot to twist the sword free. She marked the next heretic, a woman sprouting feathers along her arms, sword already beginning its death arc. In every round expended and motion used, the Sisters of the Ebon Chalice exploited the openings in the Chaos ranks. Swarming like ants, the desperate cultists used strength of numbers where their battle training lacked. One Sister, pulled to the ground by the frenzied mortals, shrieked in anger as her helmet was ripped off. A succession of lasbolts found her exposed face.

A flash of deadly light singed Taryn's helm. Whirling about, the Sister Superior crashed an armoured fist into the face of the brazen cultist who attacked her. Retaliation came quick. An invisible force hefted the Sister of Battle to throw her against the far wall. The back of her head cracked against the stone; Taryn slumped to the scorched ground stunned, her sword falling from nerveless fingers.

"Witches in their ranks," the Sister bearing the flamer yelled, loosing another wave of flames.

Amara sought out the impertinent psyker with her un-sight. Hiding to the rear and close to the portcullis, the witch's face betrayed fear at his discovery. The Interrogator shoved past the Sisters, only seeing the glowing eyes of the psyker. He reacted violently, striving to maintain the distance between himself and Amara. Chained lightning tore the air. It found its mark in the back of a Battle Sister, but in the precious seconds of surprise, Amara Kith made the killing blow. In her null sphere the man knew terror when his magic failed him. One bolt round split the psyker's head open. The corpse capered a moment longer before dropping to the bloodied floor.

It was over. A Sister strode over the charred bodies, administering death to unlucky survivors. Another knelt by Taryn who, having taken off her helmet, let her wound be inspected.

Amara handed the power sword back to Taryn. "Combat like this must be nothing new to you."

"I will live through the day," she replied through blood stained teeth. "The same cannot be said for Sisters Corrine and Emma."

"We'll return for the bodies after Lord Saeger had won the day," Amara reassured her. A nameless Sister moved the bodies of the battle maidens from the pile of heretics, reverently folding their hands over their chests in the sign of the aquila. "Their bravery and sacrifice won't be forgotten."

Rising without help, Taryn pushed past Amara, hollering for the Sisters to rally. The Interrogator knew Taryn's display of contempt stemmed from losing two warriors. That, and being in the shadow of Amara's silence. Refusing to withdraw her null ability, Amara knew the effects would worsen the attitudes of those around her. She could not order them as an ordained Inquisitor would; the leverage given for this mission by Lord Saeger was minimal.

_Let this be done with quickly_, she thought, waving her servo-skull close. The plasteel door was unlocked and the way forward unhindered. Seven Sisters and Amara Kith continued into the belly of the beast, into the earth warrens undercutting the hive.

The route took them across an ancient causeway, its width great enough for fifty men marching shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps once, in the days when Saint Gilles walked Isfarena, it knew the constant tread of feet and the warm rays of the sun. Centuries' of the hive accruing over the ferrocrete cast it in shadows and dust, leaving it forgotten as men took other paths. Towering statues lined the causeway, pollution and grime shrouding their forms, covering the deep recess of their faces. Unseeing eyes watched a bloodied squad and servo-skull proceed over the great road.

Far, far overhead where the infinite darkness eclipsed the ceiling, the earth shook. Clods of loose dirt and boulders, some the size of a Rhino's chassis, plummeted to crack against the causeway. Rarer, but just as deadly, older sections of the hive fell. All winced at the ricocheting echo of dislodged boulders hurtling down in the dark. The heavy ordnance of the PDF and Canoness Preceptor was underway, unaware of the threats to the subterranean squads. Stress fractures, great cracks threading the primeval causeway, made the group wary. Amara Kith increased their stride and prayed for safety.

Her prayers did not reach the Emperor.

Cultists sent to bolster the portcullis appeared from the gloom. With no finesse and nerves taut, the Sisters created a bloody stitch of bolter fire across the heretical ranks. Brief, sporadic light from the bolters revealed a deluge of rocks and metal careening downwards. The Sisters and cultists broke and ran as the boulders collided against the ferrocrete and statues. Sheered slabs of the effigies smashed on the grand avenue, plunging them into the chasm beneath. Grit choked the air, obscuring the light of torches and helm displays. Those possessing the Emperor's divine blessing or the Dark Powers faith escaped; others were crushed. Amid the confusion, the Sisters of Battle continued felling their enemies. When the dust settled, a head count was made. No cultists survived, but another three Sisters were lost. Amara Kith saw the outstretched arm of one Sororitas, the rest of the body ground to paste under the weight of a massive boulder.

"Blood on the Throne," profanity from the Sister beforehand echoed on the vox. "Why does the God-Emperor test our numbers so? How is it valiant to die in this manner?"

"Sister Miria held the storm bolter," another noted. Unease laced her voice. "It has been lost to the abyss."

The causeway shivered. The trembling intensified, building to a cataclysmic end with the ferrocrete bridge crumbling. Amara shouted for them to run in a hoarse voice, blood pounding with adrenaline singing through her veins. Soon the whole highway was quaking, careening from side to side as it fell to oblivion, pulling the great statues down with its death throes. Stumbling like drunks, the ground jumping beneath them, Amara Kith and the Sororitas dashed through the destruction. Behind them came death. Ahead, salvation emerged in the form of stairs. Amara pushed on, the remaining Sisters following.

Energy born from desperation as the underground world collapsed, the group threw themselves through a doorway under the baleful gaze of the Imperial aquila. The quake swallowed the once great causeway, leaving the survivors covered in dust and the breath taken from their lungs, but alive. In the lee of the portal that led into the lowest recesses of the cathedral, the weakened squad sheltered. Bruised, damaged, their strength cleaved in half, nonetheless the Emperor watched over them. Amara removed her rebreather, tossing it into the murky ravine.

"Close ranks," Taryn hoarsely ordered. She leaned heavily against her power sword, hands clasped around the hilt and head bowed as though in prayer. "Emperor be praised on sanctified Terra, we have reached the cathedral, Sisters. Should we find your master at the end of this madness, your report will speak highly of the courage my Battle Sisters displayed this day. I will note your leadership abilities down this hellish path were governed by a card, Interrogator Amara Kith."

Leaning against the far wall, Amara did not care enough to order Taryn to silence. A visible tremor shook her body, an over-taxed system ready to rebel. Amara was blatantly pressing her ability to its limit when a saner mind would have relinquished it. Nausea swept over her and she waited for the reaction to pass. She controlled this. She was always in control. Inhaling a deep breath, the Inquisitor-to-be watched dust motes float in the air.

"Of course, Sister Taryn. If luck sees us through the remainder of this day."

"Luck does not exist," the Sister holding the flamer replied. "The Divine Emperor guides us in our just mission."

Her voice carried the emphatic note of the true believer. Nothing less was expected from the Emperor's brides. Holding her tongue, Amara Kith concentrated on aligning her physical and mental planes once more. Faltering now meant defeat. Amid the shaking of the grand cathedral's foundations, Amara scanned the secure channels in the hopes of raising Lord Saeger. Static hissed and popped. Truly, her squad was on its own until they linked up with others. If any were fortunate enough to have survived the tunnels.

Amara brought out the auspex and map. The machine spirits refused to respond, their cores either damaged from the fighting or hindered by Warp magic. And the four could sense it, the air weighed down by its almost corporeal existence. To the Interrogator the sensation was akin to bugs crawling over her skin, seeking a way to sully her. Shaking it off, Amara maintained the lead as the unit followed.

In dark halls lit by torches, they hunted for the heart of the cult. A quick pace down corridors of marble and bronze gilt was set, broken when confronted by heretics foolish or mad with the hopes of ambushing them. Charred and hacked bodies marked the Imperium's passing. Sister Superior Taryn moved forward resolutely, her power sword drawn and boltgun ready. Doors splintered, chambers were investigated, the renegades of the God-Emperor killed without mercy. Amara knelt over the toy chest in one room, pondering where the younglings were as the adults died. The youngest cultist she had slain hadn't been older than fifteen, too old for rag dolls and wooden blocks. Like everything else, it would have to wait.

'All paths lead to Saint Gilles' went a famous Isfarena saying. Words never rang truer when the passageway Amara blindly took emptied out unexpectedly into an underground chapel. It was one of many in the great design of the cathedral, a pocket of desecrated faith by the followers of Chaos. Unexceptional at any other time save now. The heretical sight at the center nearly broke the resolve of the squad.

Four aisles led to the central nave where a bright light flooded the esoteric chapel. The light emanated from a pillar of cold white flame, its flames touching but not burning the domed ceiling. Slabs of stone, taken from a world far from the Emperor's light, were etched with arcane and foul symbols. They floated a hand's breadth above the ground to form the boundary of the ceremony. Enclosed in the middle of the dark rite was the stolen bone of Saint Gilles. Wisps of blue-white flame coiled up from the bone to form the beginning of a Warp gate. It was barely there, a sliver of sickening light flickering against the white flame, but its creation marked what horrors could follow if not closed.

Selina's predictions rang true. The bone of the saint was carved and cast anew, drawing forth powers its maker once sought to subvert. Standing alongside the unholy pillar of flame to direct the careful birthing, the cult leader turned, regarding the new arrivals in the chamber. Amara Kith expected a twisted being. A foul mutant, an aberration against the Imperial Creed; what she saw was worse. Aside from the extravagant Byzantine robes worn he was utterly normal in appearance. He could have been anyone. Leeching power from the once sacred relic of Saint Gilles, the man's eyes briefly flared.

"Fate brought you here." He addressed them with discomforting familiarity.

Sister Superior Taryn stepped into the light of the daemonic flame. "The Will of the Emperor guided us to end your foul existence. Your desecration of the saint is a profanation of the greatest accord, a deviation from the Emperor's justice. Cease your witchery and you may yet be granted a swift death."

He shook his head. "Misguided women. The cowl has been pulled over your eyes. You willingly remain naïve to the workings of the galaxy. No more, not here. Coincidence, as I've been instructed, is non-existent. Everything is foreordained."

"Just as the cleansing of Isfarena's unfaithful will be. Your forces are routed, strength depleted." Amara's statement was punctuated by the colossal base of the church shivering. The pitched battle continued far away, life and death decided by the strength of those in combat. Swept up in cold flames, the graven bone linking the Materium and Immaterium bobbed on aetheric currents.

The cult magus chuckled. In one hand he held a children's storybook, in the other a force staff. "She took them. As promised she took all of them to safety and left us here to fend for ourselves. A last stand of fathers and mothers desperate for a miracle. But it worked and our children are free. You," he spat the word venomously. "Your kind won't make it out of here alive."

Amara pointed to the flame-wielding Sister of Battle. "With me. Sister Taryn, hold the enemy at bay with whatever means necessary. I will deal with the cult mage and close the portal." Before Taryn could argue against the order, Amara was running down a row of pews to the right, taking another aisle up to the central nave. She drew her sword, her servo-skull flying at shoulder level as the Sister of Battle protected their backs.

The magus raised his arm, tendrils of dark magic seeping from the rent at his command. In swirling currents it flowed from the pedestal and up his body to the staff. Voice cracking like rocks, he uttered disgusting syllables, guiding the energies toward an ominous purpose. One of the Sister's cursed against the mage. Closing the distance to the warlock, Amara's skin crawled as her un-sight warded against the unleashed magic.

With the corrupt energy, the magus brought something across the rift. It detached itself from the gloom, slithering across shadows and pools of light, swimming toward the trio of Sisters standing back to back. When it struck, bursting from the ground in a savage dance of claws and bladed limbs, its speed could barely be tracked. Its form was one of constant motion, never the same shape for too long. One thrust from its talons, it punched through the armour of a Sister. Lifting her off her feet, the featureless monstrosity barked a laugh as she screamed the Litany of Hate. Before a single round could be unleashed, the spawn grasped her upper torso in a slithering tentacle and ripped her in two.

Amara reached the pedestal as the screams tore the air. Leaping up the steps, the rite's barrier halted their advance. Their attentions turned to one of the boundary stones. Unclipping a krak grenade, the Sister primed it and threw. It detonated against a stone, cracking the repulsive wards. Amara followed by emptying the magazine of her bolt pistol into the fissure, splitting it further. The magus backed away as the barrier dissolved, leaving him open to the fury of the Interrogator and Sister of the Ebon Chalice. Her sword slashed the air ahead of her; Amara pushed the cult leader back until he was pressed against one of the boundary stones.

He threw the book to buy moments, to draw more power from the opening gateway. Batting aside the tome, Amara came within the man's psychic radius. His eyes bulged at the touch of silence. Clashing against the psychic bubble, Amara's vision wavered. Her nausea returned, threatening to sever her shaky concentration. Swallowing her rising gorge, the Interrogator pressed on, throwing all her strength behind her blade.

In the chapel's aisle, the abomination dropped the floundering corpse of the second Battle Sister. Its rasping voice shrieked in joy at the bloodshed, rebounding off the walls and echoing in Taryn's ears. Her faith sustained her in the face of the Chaos entity. Whispering a hymnal to the God-Emperor and Saint Alicia Dominica, Sister Superior Taryn rushed the chaotic spawn. The disruptor field of her power sword drew first blood. She chopped off a tentacle, the limb dissipating in shadows when it hit the violated ground. Her second blow severed a talon. Charged by righteous fury, Taryn pressed the attack, foreseeing the monster retreating against her sword.

There was only one witness to Sister Taryn's death.

Instead of recoiling, it charged. Taryn twisted aside, ducking under its sweeping grip. Her actions were useless. Wrapping its arms and writhing coils around the Sister of Battle, the monster began to crush its opponent. Taryn screamed defiantly. Her armour buckling under the strain, servos whining, the Sister Superior acted in the knowledge that she would not escape. Reversing her sword, Taryn plunged it through her and into the foul being. Before it crushed her, Sister Superior Taryn wrenched the blade free, throwing it toward the last Sister of the Ebon Chalice.

Screaming in desperate anger, the final battle maiden ran at the Chaos devil. Expending the remaining fuel in her weapon, she hurled it into the press of shadows. Grasping the power sword, she charged into the darkness with the confidence of victory or defeat. There was no middle ground. Weakened by the blow the Sister Superior gave in death, burning in flames, the summoned beast dropped under the enraged assault. Shouting the Litany of Triumph, the Sister of Battle's sword arm pierced the Warp beast's heart, cutting its life from the Materium.

Sensing his ally's death, the cult leader bared his teeth and snarled. Locked in combat against the Interrogator, his force staff blocking her sword, the man wrestled for the upper hand. The pedestal and boundary rocks quivered as heavy ordnance rocked the grand cathedral again. Feinting back as the ground shifted, the warlock lashed out and punched Amara. The blow crashed against her left cheek, bringing with it throbbing pain and the taste of blood.

"The Dark Mother ordained this. That's why she took the children to safety." The man edged back while Amara reeled from his strike. Closer to the thigh bone, closer to the opening Warp gate.

Amara spat. "Who is the Dark Mother?"

No response came. Lunging at the cult leader, Amara sought to keep him from the relic. She dropped her sword and with both hands grabbed his force staff. Using it as leverage, Amara Kith drew herself up against the magus. He screamed as the acolyte's nullility bled the life from him.

"I know my little Klauss and Rais will never be seen again," he whispered from blackening lips. "I'm at peace with that. You, you damned bitch, will go with me. I'll kill you as your kind took my wife."

With his remaining strength, the heretic attempted to throw both himself and Amara into the widening gateway. Amara howled to the Sister of Battle, "Destroy the relic! Destroy it now!" She fought against the man, her muscles cramping and skin crawling against his existence. The Battle Sister raced for the pedestal.

Jumping onto the platform she shrieked, "In the name of the God-Emperor let my strength be true!" The power sword came down. By the blade's disruptor field or the divine power the Sister's faith channelled, she struck true.

The thigh bone of Saint Gilles sundered.

With nothing to control it, the Warp gate began to unravel. An explosion ripped through the basements of the cathedral. The floating stones collapsed in a thunderous avalanche. Directionless energies folded on itself, mutating the rift in to a vortex. On the other side, high-pitched screams and gaping moans issued their defeat. The pull of the closing gate was tremendous. Amara pushed away from the magus, hands scrabbling to grip the base of the pedestal to find purchase on the nave's stonework. Laughing madly, the leader of the heretical cult let himself to be pulled into the maw and oblivion. Across the squad's vox-channel a desperate prayer repeated.

"Emperor protects- He on Terra protects his handmaidens-"

The vortex imploded, washing the underground chapel in poisonous light. Amara felt herself hurtled violently through the air and into the pews. Her grip on her un-sight was released, the strain against her body finished. Deep, profound silence replaced the former cacophony of daemonic wails. Time trickled on, its meaning lost as Amara remained unconscious. In the air, traces of the Warp gate flickered.

A pungent odor, burnt ozone, brought Amara back to the present. Hacking the dust from her parched throat, the gloomy world swam into focus, shrouded in red. A light pierced the dark to rest on Amara. It was followed by a quiet click as her servo-skull registered her vital signs. Flanking the diminutive machine-spirit was the lone Sister of Battle. She held the hilt of the broken power sword, her empty flamer slung over her shoulder. Removing her helmet, the Sister's black hair framed a concerned face. A scar ran up the left side of her mouth, turned upward in a smile.

"Milady, it is good to see you are alive. Have you been wounded?" With her free hand she helped the Interrogator to her feet.

"You're the one who swore over the vox-link, am I right?" Amara winced as she was pulled upright. A rib was bruised, maybe even broken. Providence was still on her side. Her servo-skull, eternally devoted, shone its light to where Amara's sword was. Jutting out from a pile of rubble, the haft of the weapon was reassuring in her hand. Pulling it free, Amara wiped the blade and sheathed it.

"Yes, milady."

"What's your name?"

"Sister Ursula of the Order of the Ebon Chalice. Though I fear for not much longer as I've destroyed the relic of the blessed Saint Gilles."

Amara Kith smiled, wincing. "Sister Ursula, have no worries. Let's ascend and find our allies. I promise, with whatever power and influence I have, I will ensure your protection."


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**022.M42**

**Isfarena, Eliator subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

Amara Kith and Ursula sought their way through the Grand Cathedral of Saint Gilles, ascending the levels with extreme caution. Although the mad cult leader was dead miles below, the church was not miraculously cleared of enemies. Kith's bolt pistol barked down marble halls at shadows, unwilling to take chances against potential murderers. More than once the Interrogator and Sister of Battle backtracked to find a safer route to the surface. Gothic arches that hadn't crumbled under the Holy Inquisition's assault groaned at the new weight placed upon them. Tonnes of granite from upper floors, caved in from artillery, blocked corridors and threatened to create a new tomb should the slightest tremor disturb it.

"Imagine accomplishing the mission only to die under all this," Amara thought out loud. "An undignified way to go."

"At the very least we die with the knowledge we destroyed evil this day," Sister Ursula's voice was husky through her helm's grille. "And in the house of Saint Gilles, blessed be the saint and his great works."

Amara gave the Sister of Battle a levelled stare. Ursula pretended not to notice, seeking targets in the corridor. Refraining from further conversation, the Approbator gestured when the first cold breeze rustled her sweat dried hair. Clasping the Sister on her shoulder guard, Amara pointed to their left. A flight of broad steps showed their exit. They came out along the westernmost transept, thoroughly confused by the cathedral's layout and without a map to guide them. Marking the late hour, Ursula removed her helm to breathe in the fresh air. With a crack of lasfire, the shot took Ursula's helmet out of her hands; the Sister of Battle grabbed Amara Kith and dove for cover.

"Saint Alicia's middle finger," she swore. "Where did that come from?"

Hand covering her bruised side, pain flaring from the previous battle, Amara peered around the statue where they sheltered. Her servo-skull flew up to the ceiling, hiding from three more rounds flashing down the walkway in rapid succession. "The left side of the corridor, just under the archway."

"Are you certain, milady?" Ursula's question was answered when the lone gunman fired again. Before Kith could give orders – a thought to battle tactics or contacting someone on the vox – Sister Ursula plucked the bolt pistol from her hands, charging down the corridor.

The bolt pistol's first round exploded in the wall, sending a cascade of white plaster down on the heretic. The second round caught the man in his leg when he attempted to flee. Rolling on to his back with his hands shaking, he aimed the lasrifle. Nerves betrayed the soldier, making him miss. What could have taken off the battle maiden's head only punched into her gorget. Forgoing the bolt pistol, Ursula used the broken power sword to take her enemy's life.

Amara Kith arrived as Ursula cleaned the blood from the ruined blade's jagged edge. She turned from the severed head lying in the corner. "An impressive display of bravery, but wait for my command. You're fortunate to be alive." She handed Ursula's helmet over. One of the eye lenses had shattered, reflecting multiple images of the Sororitas back to her.

"I am alive by His great mercy." Ursula examined the blade of the deceased Sister Taryn. Guilt clouded her features. "I must give my report. The Canoness Preceptor needs to be made aware of my squad's fate."

Amara Kith, painfully reminded she too had to tell Saeger her actions, imagined his ire would be terrible. Returning with only a single Sister, empty-handed without the cult leader's body, she was not eager to face her master. Ordering her servo-skull to lead, it confirmed each junction and hallway clear before the Interrogator and Sister of Battle moved. Finally, gratefully, they heard the growl of engines, footsteps marching in unison, and the flooding, too-bright light of search lamps. The western transept emptied into the outer plaza of the grand cathedral. Great flagstones cracked under the Ebon Chalice and PDF war machines, the orderly ranks of the latter securing the building while the former eliminated heretics taken captive.

"I must leave you here, Milady Kith." Making the sign of the aquila, Ursula shouldered her flamer. "May the Emperor bless you."

"I will speak with Canoness Loren to vouch the sanctity of your actions. I don't renege on my promises, Sister Ursula."

What could have been a thankful smile twitched at the corners of Ursula's lips. She marched by a squad of Sisters, Ursula's black armour as ravaged as theirs, her white cloak as bloodstained. Turning the corner of a Rhino, the battle maiden was gone from sight. Amara looked skyward, watching smoke pour from the cathedral's immense spires, coiling up in a haze of black, underscored in red by the fires below. She could not distinguish the spire tops or wish to see them, knowing condemned bodies already swung from the gargoyle-encrusted tracery.

One of the PDF forces had raised a banner in the plaza. Golden thread worked on a field of white silk caught the light, billowing on corpse-choked wind, making the double-headed eagle come to life. Amara smiled sardonically. Leaving the majestic sight of Imperial justice behind, Amara sought out Saeger inside the cathedral walls. She needed only follow the hoarse screams down an ambulatory, which led into a cloister where heretics died over scorching flames. Greasy ash laced the sky, coating everything it touched in a fine layer of grime. Keeping her distance from the compound bonfires consuming polluted flesh and bone, the young woman gazed dispassionately at headless corpses waiting for incineration.

Saeger had kept busy after his victorious crusade.

The Lord Inquisitor neared the end of his judgement, for the line of chained traitors was short. Confessor Dimitri stood next to the Hereticus Inquisitor, codex open, ready to pen the last words of the heretic being pulled from a cage of steel mesh. Before the previous renegade could expire, another was already dragged forward to take their place. Bound hand and foot, they were locked into the steel confines to be suspended over a deep pit of flames. Operated by one of Saeger's coterie, the crane mechanism raised or lowered by Saeger's command.

"We cast ourselves into the arms of true gods!" Writhing inside the cage, the bound servant of Chaos screamed. "She enlightened us! May the Dark Mother take me to her hearth!"

"Elucidate to me who this Dark Mother is. You spoke with her, did you not? Your lies only prolong the agony of your punishment." Compelling the man with a mental nudge, Saeger stood with the point of his force sword planted in the earth. His armour, scored in a dozen places, attested to the fierce battles fought in the cathedral's upper levels. "Speak quickly before the flames burn your tongue."

The traitor said nothing. Gritting his teeth with enough force to break his jawbone, the heretic burned alive without revealing any secrets. Saeger ordered the corpse removed when it was nothing more than blackened flesh. Amara Kith watched the merciless proceedings from the cloister walls, stepping into the light when the body was kicked into the burning fire. Even then, she halted a fair distance from the pit.

"Lord Saeger, I come to give my report."

Saeger turned at her presence. "Ahh, Amara. Here I was beginning to fear the catacombs claimed you and I would need to recite the Sacrifice of the Mass." He beckoned her closer. "You could not be raised on the vox, child. Come, state what transpired before your eyes."

While the heretics were thrown to the flames or put under the blade by Ecclesiarchy zealots, the Interrogator chronicled her encounter in the deep vaults of the cathedral. Listening with a face of stone, the Inquisitor Lord only nodded when the deaths of the Sisters and the heroic act of Sister Ursula were spoken of. In an unexpected turn of events Lord Saeger's rage did not turn against her; unperturbed by the near-complete annihilation of Amara's squad, he seemed indifferent.

"We shall have the bodies recovered," Confessor Dimitri scribed the name of the final heretic in his great tome, closing his codex. "They might be raised to sainthood for their exemplary model of courage in the face of Chaos."

"Indeed," Saeger agreed offhandedly. He set to pace the length of the cloister, ordering Amara Kith to follow. She glanced over her shoulder at the Frateris Militia; directed by Confessor Dimitri, they cleansed hallowed ground of whatever unsightly remains there were.

"Was your sky born attack successful, Lord Saeger?"

"The Seraphim are truly the elite of the Adepta Sororitas. What impurities they encountered burned against their faith. If only the common man held such indoctrinated belief in his heart, we would not have given this world our retribution. Truly, this day was glorious for the work of the God-Emperor was done well here." Pausing to admire the mosaics, Saeger's question came quick. "Amara, why do you believe this 'Dark Mother' was at Isfarena?"

The question took her by surprise. "To cause havoc, spread the disease of Chaos. The spiritual pollution alone on this world could take years to clean. Even then extensive re-education of the people-"

"I did not tutor a dolt. Do not waste my time or your breath giving an answer Dimitri can put forward." He ran a finger over an engraved verse on his gauntlet. "You, unlike the confessor, have a mind. Tell me your true thoughts, keep nothing hidden."

Exhaling loudly, the gravel crunching under their boots as they marched the length of the enclosure, Amara said, "Children. There weren't any children in the chambers, just their belongings. The cult leader told me she'd taken the children away."

"You see things clearly. Now ask the question why there were no children."

"I," Amara hesitated. They completed their circuit around the cloister. "I don't have an answer."

Rounding on Amara Kith, the imposing Lord Inquisitor grasped her arm. In the flames light, his severe face changed to wear a rictus grin. Faith shone through his eyes. Powerful, mad, unyielding belief in a higher power. In those pupils, the Interrogator sensed the prominence of the moment. Walking purposefully to the assemblage of Adeptus Ministorum servants, Euleus Saeger drew his sword from its ornate sheath. Eyes snapped up to the blade while knees touched bloodied earth.

"Kneel, Amara Kith." Saeger raised the force sword, its keen edge catching the light of the bonfires. "In the name of the God-Emperor, unto the Golden Throne which all His servants fall before, I, Lord Inquisitor Saeger of the Syntyche sector, hereby raise you from the rank of Interrogator into the hallowed ranks of the Inquisitor. You will be the scourge of the heretic, the bane of the damned, the sworn enemy of Chaos and all who bargain under their pantheon. Name yourself before those assembled."

She knelt while Dimitri and those of Saeger's inner circle acted as witnesses. Her heart swelled at the ritual words. All the years of toil, sweat, and bloodshed were stripped away as the decree spilled from Saeger's lips. The words lifted the weight of trials born under duress, replaced with the greatest of expectations given.

"I am Amara Kith, Interrogator under Lord Inquisitor Saeger. Once of the planet Inno, I have laid bare my soul to the Emperor and allow myself to be used as a tool to His ends. Those who stand before His purpose, who seek to destroy what Humanity has created, will know destruction under my name." She spoke the words with utter solemnly. Here and now she became committed. Here and now her life held meaning. Her true battle began.

"You have proven yourself today on the field of battle, Amara Kith of Inno. Know the weight of true responsibility placed upon you." The flat blade of the force sword tapped her left shoulder. "Know the souls of billions rest upon your decisions. Know the powers given to you and rise, ready to serve the God-Emperor." Again the sword touched her, resting on her right shoulder. "Faith is the blade of war. You now carry it to your enemies wherever they raise their poisonous banner."

His hand pressed on Amara's crown. Removing his rosette of office about his neck, Saeger passed it to her. Unshed tears were in the young woman's eyes, a fierce craving taking hold as her fingers curled possessively over the Inquisitorial Seal. Here and now everything changed. It was only later, returning to the command tent that more personal matters were spoken of. Standing in a partitioned section of the pavilion, falsehoods concealed their conversation from prying ears. Going as far to deactivate her servo-skull, the newly made Inquisitor stood across the table where Saeger sat. Rows of stasis chests and locked bins were stacked behind him, their contents remaining a mystery to Amara.

"I take it," he began, "you already know which ordo you want to join."

"The Ordo Malleus."

Saeger chuckled. "What did I do so wrong for you or Gren to not choose my order?" There was no anger or regret in the laughter. "I will forward your petition to the Malleus Fortress on Titan. Before a Terran week, your name will be inscribed in the Syntyche records of your promotion."

"My thanks, Lord Inquisitor Saeger." She humbly bowed.

Saeger tapped his finger on the desk in consideration. "I prepared something for you when this day came, if you survived to meet it. What boundless fortune you have. Rising above the challenges I put before you, sometimes outright surprising me, I will expect great things. You steeled your anger and used it well." He brought forth a gene-locked cask, just one of many in the ordered stack. Pressing his finger against the panel, Saeger's voice was mellifluous while he explained. "For years I have gathered information, leads, rumours, all sources to the whereabouts of Ahriman, the arch-sorcerer of the Thousand Sons."

"To what ends?" Amara knew the traitorous name all too well. She had grown knowing the detailed history of the Tzeentchian follower.

"This is not the first time stories of the 'Dark Mother' have come to my attentions. Her name's risen in previous dealings over the last decade, closely tied to Ahriman's workings each time. The cult uncovered here appears to have been one of the monster's many tendrils, puppeteered by a servant of considerable talent. Come here, Inquisitor."

Amara Kith took a step toward the opened cask. Her eyes took in rows of data-slates, sheaves of paper and parchment, holocubes of locked memories. "What is all this?"

"Your gift. Your call to the obligation made in your youth. You shall continue following this abhorred being in my stead and take revenge. I recall the child from long ago wanting nothing more than that. Do you still seek it now?"

"I do." The old hatred, blind anger, swept through her body. "I promised to find each of those monsters who took Katea. I promised to end each of their lives and find her. I do not make pledges lightly, Lord Saeger."

"Good girl." Closing the cask, Saeger instructed Amara to place her thumb over the gene-lock, reconfiguring the settings to only accept her genetic sequence. He noticed the slight tremor in her hand. "Tell me, did you take your injection? The witches you fought against were potent."

"I'm well. Think nothing of it." Amara replaced her glove, fingers flexing under the leather. "When I go to the medicae center, they can fix my bruised rib. Everything else is secondary. I won't age to the point where it's irreversible."

"As a suggestion, I strongly encourage you to employ a talented apothecary who can minister your rejuvenate treatments. There are some I shall recommend into your service, ones who hold their tongue and aren't rumour mongers."

"Again, you have my thanks." Brushing aside a lock of blonde hair, Amara held a holocube up to the light.

Saeger regarded her with pride. "You have earned this small victory. I only apologize in the hastiness of my decision, yet when these moments come, one must act upon it before it leaves. What will your first order of office be, Inquisitor Amara Kith?"

"I have to keep a promise I made."

* * *

The Order of the Ebon Chalice stood in judgement to one of their own. A lesser basilica in the cathedral's eastern transept was cleared and consecrated for this singular purpose. Stripped of her armour to wear a thin white habit, Sister Ursula stood abjectly in a pool of torch light. She felt hollow. The righteous flame granting her such fervour to strike the relic was now an ember. Banked only by the tenants of the Imperial Creed to sustain her, as in her youth, the woman maintained her outward composure. Flanked by Celestians, they kept a close eye on the wayward Sister, ready to curb any insolence. But there was none. Ursula's eyes looked everywhere except on the person who mattered the most. Before her was Canoness Preceptor Loren, unhappy as always, sheer revulsion marring her disfigured countenance.

"Your squad was annihilated. You openly admit to the destruction of the relic of Saint Gilles by your own hand. And you have shamed yourself by uttering blasphemies in using His Most Holy's title. By what right should we grant this deviant mercy, Sisters?" Loren's cold voice dropped like ice on to Ursula's skin. "What worth does she proclaim in our ranks?"

Ursula's counter argument was null. The built-in pict-feeds from her recovered helmet gave incontestable proof of transpired events. She prayed for a miracle but knew what awaited her. Repentia. There would be nothing else. Already Ursula imagined the immense weight of the eviscerator chainsword, the parchments detailing her faults and sins wrapped over weak flesh, the suicide charge into the thickest conflict. Fists clenched at this future, the senselessness of fighting it. About the basilica candles illuminated the high vault, their wax dripping on the skin of cherubim servitors holding them. At last Ursula raised her grey eyes to meet Loren's.

"She throws herself at the mercy of the Order of the Ebon Chalice and the love of the God-Emperor, Canoness Loren." Great and profound silence followed.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" The Canoness Preceptor was respectful for the sake of the trial, but the assembled Sisterhood was unsympathetic.

"I do not, my Lady Canoness. I stand before you to receive my punishment which I will gladly accept. I shall face it with the dignity of one who seeks redemption-"

With a grating rumble the basilica's doors opened, interrupting the ceremonial tribunal. The Sisters of Battle looked at the interloper with thinly veiled disdain. The newest occupant in the hall, Amara Kith strode through the ranks of the Ebon Chalice until she stood beneath the podium Loren occupied. She stood defiant; a marked contrast to the subjugated posture Ursula took. She regarded the Canoness Preceptor without fear.

"There is one who would see the life of this woman spared. Begin pict and vox recording," Amara ordered her servo-skull. It obeyed with a series of clicks.

"By what right do you break this trial, Interrogator? Go back to your Inquisitor Lord. Even he holds enough sense to know this isn't the business of the Inquisition. Or stay," Loren hissed, "and watch where your poor leadership's brought this Sister of Battle."

"Mind your tongue when speaking to an Inquisitor, Canoness Loren." Brandishing the Inquisitorial Seal given by Saeger with no small satisfaction, Amara watched the blood drain from the woman's unattractive face. "I stand against the judgement of this fearless warrior. She only followed orders I gave her, and I ordered her to destroy a corrupted relic. Or did that small note escape your attention?"

"Your orders held no weight at the time," Loren's white gauntlet waved aside the testimonial. "You were only an Interrogator."

"My orders held a great deal of weight at the time. I was charged by the Lord Inquisitor to purge the corruption where I found it. And now I'm an Inquisitor holding the very seal granted by the God-Emperor to safeguard his realm, a symbol of power known long before any of the Sisterhoods were founded. '_They shall be My hammer, the sword in My hand, the gauntlet about My fist, the bane of My foes and woes of the treacherous.' _Which organization holds greater sway in the galaxy?" Letting the threaded insult hang over the gathering, Amara went on. "Sister Ursula is not to be judged by the Ebon Chalice."

"She will become Repentia for her destruction of the sacred relic." Fist crashing on to the wood of the podium, Loren looked apoplectic. "Sister Ursula's blood must be shed for the redemption of her soul and the honour of the Ebon Chalice Order. Her faith has waned, Inquisitor, leaving her spirituality open to become malleable to darker forces."

"Her devotion is praiseworthy. Sister Ursula didn't waver in her actions, not for a moment regardless of the threat faced. For this, she will join my warband. I have need of capable warriors, those who don't flinch against orders needing to be fulfilled, no matter how vile they are."

"You do not have the right-"

"I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus. I serve the God-Emperor and fight the taint of Chaos. I can command an entire system or subsector should the need arise. I can even command you, Canoness Preceptor Loren." Amara deliberately pointed at the Sororitas. "So when you dictate that I do not have the right," she smiled coldly, "I beg to differ. I have every right. I serve His Imperium."

A wheeze escaped Loren's lungs. Echoing across the walls, sinking to the floor to disappear into the murk, the sound prickled the skin. It took the Sisterhood a few moments to comprehend Canoness Preceptor Loren was laughing. "In the God-Emperor's name, even the smallest mote of dust is worth its weight in gold if used correctly. Sister Ursula, the Throne of Terra finds a use for you yet. Will you heed the summons?"

Ursula breathed a quiet sigh of relief, hands clasped against her bosom, stilling her tremors. Sinking to her knees, the Sister of Battle said, "Though service to the Inquisitor Amara Kith, I shall make amends for my failing this day. Canoness Preceptor Loren, my duty to the wondrous Emperor will not falter. I shall strive to purge the corruption of Chaos and sanctify my work in the cleanliness of flames."

"Inquisitor Kith, what is your intention?" Loren's single physical eye fixed on her.

"I hunt for the Dark Mother who caused the blight on Isfarena, simple as that." Amara Kith stepped back from Loren, servo-skull still recording.

"You will go forth from the Order of the Ebon Chalice in the service of the Holy Inquisition, Sister Ursula. Be content in the knowledge you have avoided the path of the Repentia for the moment. You are not to return until you have slain this Dark Mother." Loren passed the tribunal's charge, focusing on the humbled battle maiden kneeling at the podium's base. "Fail in this undertaking and your death will absolve your sins. Destroy the being who perverted the saint's bones and you may be accepted into to our ranks once more."

* * *

"The scroll?" A silver case of ornate decoration was passed into the grand sorcerer's ceramite talons. Opening the casing, Ahriman removed its treasure. "Where was it hidden?"

"Held within the lower vaults, left to mould and rot. The Imperial halfwits had no idea what they held." Beneath her gem-encrusted veil, Neferuaat's corpse-pale lips curled into a smirk. "Many of the Ecclesiarchy held it as fact that Gilles' possessions were burned after his passing. Their stupidity kept it safe all this time."

Bound in an elaborate gartle, the scroll was held in reverence to the knowledge written in it. Spoken of in stories, its presence thought to be a dying race's myth, the parchment's revelations were unrolled. Sigils and glyphs inscribed on gevil parchment in gold ink, exposed for the first time in millennia. Ahriman would meditate later on the scroll's esoteric wisdom. For now he laid it on the table of the _Khermuti_'s strategium with satisfaction, hiding its the contents from the obtrusive looks of the Dark Mother and Osis Pathoth.

They were the only beings in the large hall, if one discounted the Rubricae. Each sentinel, guardians for Neferuaat during her consignment on the shrine world, bore no damage to their war plate. Her departure preceded the first landings of the Inquisitional force.

Neferuaat tapped a finger to a face lightly sketched in blue and black veins. "How did this find its way to Isfarena? I would enjoy knowing, now that your prize is safely delivered."

"Those wandering souls, the Eldar, arrived in Isfarena's past for their myriad purposes. The saint may have encountered the Exodites, or the Lugganath Craftworld sailed through this system. In either event," Ahriman's voice was tranquil, fingers spread possessively over the scroll. "He became entrusted with precious insight to the galaxy's affairs."

"Insight which led to his trick of banishing Warp gates," Pathoth intoned, "and ultimately his demise."

"If things went as I planned them to be, the re-emergent Warp gate will hold the Inquisition at bay for awhile."

"What if your scheme fails?"

Her shrug was theatrical; Pathoth knew who she had learnt the bothersome gesture from. Instead of answering the query, Neferuaat asked her own. "Why did the Exodites leave their treasures there? I thought the Eldar saw all future weaves. This moment would have been foreseen, no?"

Pathoth chuckled. "Even the Eldar, as great as their Seer Council is, cannot know the exact future. Tzeentch, undisputed master of time and fate, often tricks one with falsified potentials while showing favoured candidates the precise truth." The viceroy spoke while studying Ahriman's reaction.

The grand sorcerer levelled his black staff. "Would your shallow insult at past injustices affect my humours, Pathoth, but they do not. Higher intellects do not wallow in petty matters. Neferuaat, you are done here." Ahriman dismissed the sorceress out of hand; he gazed beyond the crystal cut windows into the void. "Vizier, stay a moment longer."

Bowing, the mortal psyker swept from the strategium. A chorus of young voices greeted the Dark Mother beyond the bulkhead; the gathering of presences saturated the air with hesitancy, relief, and fear to where they were. Some auras shone bright, others flickered in and out of being. It was maddening for Ahriman to feel the insignificant thoughts crash alongside his grand mental planes. The roiling sea swept away, a tide of infantile characters already chattering up a storm. Telepathic calm re-established, Ahriman eyed Pathoth, the guarded loathing he kept against the other witchborn cutting into the stillness.

"You indulge Neferuaat's whims. She becomes further disobedient to my summons at every turn. I send her to fetch arcane lore and she lingers too long in gathering those weak spawn to her. You would do well to restrain her impulses. I would not allow her fate's calling to be subverted by that of a lowly matron to a brood."

"Children, Ahriman. They are called children."

"I do not want them diverting my servant's attention, nor infesting my vessel in her wake," he calmly – acidly – said.

"No," Pathoth testily replied. "As I recall, they plague my craft. If nothing else is required, am I released to my own devices? Or can you not read the glyphs on your latest acquisition?"

"When I adjure to your support," said Ahriman, "limited it may be, you will know. I require no assistance. This scroll can be deciphered using the Kianemure relic, an artefact you abstained from understanding."

"We cannot hope to understand the minds of gods, Ahriman, only to serve them and receive their gifts in turn."

A dark chuckle reverberated in the air, though only those gifted in the psionic arts could hear it. "What humbled speech from a narcissistic ego. You may leave, Osis Pathoth. Dally with your thaumaturgy and teach your pupil better deference to her elders. When I have need, you will be summoned."


	8. Dark Mother  I

**Dark Mother - I**

**009.M42**

_**Khermuti**_

_The raven spoke with two heads, lies and truths whispered in a single voice. One hissed at its twin, seeking to pluck out its eyes and devour them whole. The other, feathers bristled in defence, snapped back, scoring a wound on the neck of its rival. Both struggled for dominance. In the end, the first raven broke the neck of its brother. Its vainglorious cry was short-lived. Realisation of the symbiotic nature flashed in its ebon eyes as the twin's death lead to the great raven's demise. The bird flapped its black wings and shrieked as death claimed the short-lived victor... _

"Neferuaat, what did you see?"

Honesty demanded truth between the roles of mentor and student. She chose deceit as sweat poured from her face, dripping on to her robes and psycurium veil. "Nothing, just ravens in flight. The birds were spiralling into darkness."

Osis Pathoth was not convinced. To Neferuaat's surprise he did not challenge her. "Calm your mind, fortify your mental barriers, and do not play coy in my presence. Today you give an exhibition of your skills to Ahriman."

"I don't want to." Blinking away afterimages of the double-headed raven, Neferuaat mood turned sour. Delicate golden curls framed a virtuous face, always at odds with her conceited eyes. "There's no point in these tests, not with who I am. Not with what I've been told I can do." She wrinkled her nose against the acrid incense smoke suffusing the vizier's private scriptoria, intangible clouds forming and reforming possible futures. Pathoth waved these potential fates aside, mind focused on the immediate present.

"What you want and what is required are two different matters, child. Hold to your training, recall your Warp lore, and keep your grimoire close. Loathe as I am to admit it, seek the Enumerations and their calm. I anticipate nothing today except your victory." He stood, the servos in his opulent armour growling. "Wound Ahriman's arrogance for your father's pride."

* * *

Humiliation. The emotion took time to comprehend when he felt it, having been so long. Close upon its heels came the burning of lofty pride. Shame never coloured his face or reflected in ever-changing eyes, yet it tinged his aura. His presence commanding the enclosed duelling ring, Ahriman perceived this psychic wave of bruised conceit as a blind man heard sound. It echoed in the amphitheatre as thunder swelling into a roaring crescendo. The vizier's lapse of poise, his crushed vanity, lay at the feet of the grand sorcerer. Neferuaat vomited up bile and ectoplasm, emptying her stomach's contents on the great arena's interlocking circles. On hands and knees, long hair unkempt and her face covered in tears, Neferuaat knew disgrace. Her failure brought the Vizier of the Magus low to those assembled today. The Sorcerer of the Red Cyclops refrained from attacking further, looking past the mortal psyker to Pathoth.

"What have you taught her? When I entrusted her schooling to you, I presumed the child's abilities would not languish. Was it wrong of me to assume so little?" The superior tone dripped condescension. "Where is the mastery of mental offence she ought to demonstrate? How painless to rend her mind's barricades. She's retained nothing, her mind an open sieve."

Sorcerer-adepts from either lord's faction warily exchanged looks, gauntlets resting on staffs and spell books. Flickering light from large braziers reflected off the curving edges of partially drawn blades. Each insult flayed Neferuaat's confidence. Yet each word was worse for Osis Pathoth. She weakly raised her head, searching his impassive face, hoping to find the barest trace of compassion. His eyes caused her to tremble in misery; the five words he uttered threw acid on her open wounds.

"Neferuaat, return to the _Meskhenet_."

Bethos escorted her from the amphitheatre. Neferuaat walked under her own power, summoning what remaining dignity she had. Wiping her face with her veil, she chose silence to accompany her removal, just as the sorcerer-adepts wisely held their tongues. The much-flaunted abilities of the Alpha-plus psyker contrasted against the reality departing their midst. Ahriman ordered his and Pathoth's retainers to disappear, leaving him and the advisor alone.

"Should you wish to placate her self-worth, she retained her focus until the end. Giving praise is rarely as beneficial as exposing the flaws for a humbled apprentice to become an eager student." Descending the dais, Ahriman circled the outermost ring. "What is her age? How many years of rigorous training has the girl undergone?"

The answers were irrelevant. Ahriman knew all Neferuaat's comings and goings, her lessons and growing aptitude, right down to the cryptic secrets Pathoth taught, if not their nature. Secrets, Ahriman admitted privately, he did not possess. Undoubtedly penned in the Book of Magnus after his exile, the grand sorcerer sought to wrest them from Neferuaat's mind during the one-sided duels. Either the knowledge was concealed too well in her psyche or forgotten. Knowing her tutor, Ahriman suspected the former.

"She has become the foremost of any mortal under our tutelage after a decade of studying the mysteries and paths of the Warp. However," Pathoth reflected, "Neferuaat's reached a stage where changes to her adolescent body might craft havoc in her mind. I have approached the last year of her studies with this knowledge. I advocate caution to your undoubtedly myriad plans even should you fail to heed my warnings."

"It's time for her to enter into the ranks of the cults. Which shall she prefer, vizier? The Corvidae? The Athaneanans?" The Chaos sorcerer's stride halted and he looked upward, seeing the currents of the Great Ocean through the dome crystal ceiling. Ahriman held the mantle as one of the most preeminent psykers in the galaxy; he would remind Pathoth who controlled the future of those aboard the _Khermuti_ and _Meskhenet_.

Pathoth kept his hand on the hilt of his khopesh. "Word never reached your ears? Magnus disbanded the cults. He found the arrogance of many did not suit the design of the Thousand Sons Legion. The infighting of each trying to supplant the next became intolerable."

Ahriman shrewdly watched the viceroy's movements. "Did your schemes play a role in the eradication of the cults or was it the mandate of our Primarch?"

Osis Pathoth replied, "I mete out the rumours and idle words of the Legion proper to the Primarch. It became apparent the cults were dividing, not strengthening, us as a whole. To disband them was the only solution, certainly after the failed coup against Fenris. Hence, Neferuaat will not be inducted into any singular cult." That patronizing smile returned.

"Her initiation into my cabal is imminent." Ahriman's decree suffered no insubordination.

"When shall the ceremony take place?"

"A day's cycle from now," Ahriman replied. "As wise men have said, when the present suffices, it becomes prudent to act in the moment. I will govern the ritual on the _Khermuti_. As you are her mentor, ceremony dictates you provide the essential sacrifice. Make it a worthy one, Osis."

Pathoth bowed just enough to not be insulting. "I know the perfect one, Ahzek."

* * *

Neferuaat slunk to Pathoth's alchimia for the refuge it offered after she had cleaned and fed herself. She kept away from her slaves with orders to remain undisturbed. Inside the chamber, itself an amalgamation of library and laboratory, Neferuaat hunched over her thaumaturgy books and let herself drift between the astral and physical planes. Tomes of power filled ivory-carved shelves; scrolls held in stasis to preserve their teachings; specimens hung in bell jars filled with mucus liquid. Lying imperiously at the feet of the high chair, her Gyrinx turned his head up to her mutters. Her mood was fitful, trickling through the shared empathic link to make the feline growl under its breath.

"'Neferuaat, return to the ship. Neferuaat, transcribe your lessons. Neferuaat, never eat dessert before a meal.' I made the last one up," she glanced at Argos, "but it would hardly surprise me if Pathoth said that." She idly played with the bejewelled fringe of her veil, staring at the ceiling. Hovering close to the sub-structural spine of the alchimia, a colourful borealis provided light for the grand hall. Harnessed from the Empyrean, the borealis was pure energy controlled by his might, Pathoth claimed.

Lazily watching the shifting colours ripple over the marble floors and granite walls, Argos bolted upright at the sound of thundering ceramite footsteps outside the alchimia. The doors opened, admitting Osis Pathoth and his honour guard of Rubricae. Behind came Bethos and Mhkai. Neferuaat could sense them all, from the withered souls trapped in the armour to the oily personalities of the sorcerer-adepts. The girl straightened her back against the assemblage, grounding herself to the material realm.

"I am working," she stated, frustration and ache whispering across her aura. "I need to keep to my lessons, Lord Pathoth. You always say I mustn't become lax."

"Leave your thaumaturgy, for your presence is demanded once more upon the _Khermuti_. It is time for your coven induction." He came around the desk and closed her grimoire. "Ahriman's instructions are clear. You will follow his orders and mine."

"What brought this about?" Neferuaat laughed sharply to hide her confusion. Curling around the base of the chair, Argos hissed his discontent.

"Make ready to leave. The honour guard is here for you, daughter." Pathoth watched her carefully. He rested a gauntlet on her trembling arm, sapphire war plate glinting under the borealis' light. "This order is unchanging."

"I don't want to go." A flare of nervous energy coiled up from the girl onto the vizier. It raced through Pathoth's arm, gouging both the bone and sinew of his body. Lurched violently to the side, his body caught up in the mental grip of the young psyker, the warlock spat out a quick incantation. The words released Pathoth from Neferuaat's exerted will. Neferuaat's eyes grew wide in fear at her frenzied psychic eruption. "I didn't mean to do that."

The sullen atmosphere in the great chamber changed to enmity. Even the Rubricaes' bolters were half-raised. Carefully flexing his wounded arm, Pathoth grimaced. "Do not force my hand, child, for this is one charge is I cannot contradict."

"May I speak to Tariq first?" Slinking off the chair, Neferuaat hastily drew her veil over her face. She cringed at Osis Pathoth's ill-humour. When the vizier spoke, she heard the frown in his words.

"You may, but do not dally. I give you an hour. We shall meet at the shuttle deck."

Bowing hastily, she took off at a run, Argos at her heels. Shadows peeled away from the ship's rune-worked walls to trail after the girl. Argos growled at the phantasms drawn by the psychic spoor of his mistress and they scattered at the Gyrinx's warning. A psionic predator after a fashion, the Gyrinx's claws could rend aether-born life from the Materium. Neferuaat mentally prepared herself while descending the ship's decks. She always did before speaking to Tariq. Not a thrall nor a Thousand Sons scholar, he was someone Neferuaat talked to without fear of reprisal. Though being prepared became commonplace. His caustic tongue upset many.

Tariq, Raven Guard, captured in battle with his squad and the last to survive the damning sorcery Pathoth and his coven wove. Neferuaat's tutoring in soul transference began with the sons of the Raven as unwilling participants. Ripping the soul's essence from a corporeal source, an intricate art, was one Neferuaat blundered through. The minds destroyed and bodies mutilated under her inexperienced hand were many, the alchimia an abattoir in her passing.

"Tariq," she hovered outside his cell. "I was just informed that my coven ordination is today." She peered in at the pale marine lying recumbent on the floor, his back to her. Without his armour he should have appeared weak. He was anything but that.

"This affects me how, murderess?" The last of his battle brethren, Tariq's mind was hardened that he would die as his brothers did. This knowledge sustained his hatred against the aberration conversing with him. "Should I wish you luck?"

If there were any failings to the Raven Guard, their autonomist views and heroic recklessness was the flaw. That was how the Raven Guard squad of Sergeant-Brother Tariq ran afoul with the Thousand Sons under Pathoth's cabal. Neferuaat found his defiance against the vizier bewildering, shocking and, ultimately, compelling. It was this spirit which drew her to converse with him.

"When I return, I won't be a neophyte. Why, I can order your release from this cell if I choose so. You should pray my trials go perfectly for you to gain a measure of freedom."

Tariq chuckled mirthlessly. He knew when Neferuaat came, even with his eyes blinded from torturous Warp magic. He noted, with great distaste, how the girl's heartbeat accelerated in his presence without external factors contributing. He sat up, black hair covering a sharply defined face. "My freedom comes with my death. It doesn't take secret wisdom to know that truth, witch. Corax never forgets his sons, no matter how deep the shadows may be."

"My father will accede to my request for your freedom."

A snort of derision echoed off rough cell walls. "Why give a familial title to a monster?"

"He raised me when no one else would. He knows better than I for his life has been long and illustrious. I give him the title as a mark of respect." Quickly she added, "He is my father, just as your Primarch is yours."

"Does your father respect your wishes? My eyes are dead but the manipulations Chaos uses are clear. A father considers his child's state against the wants and needs of his ego. That fiend shod in ceramite who killed my brethren while you-"

Neferuaat psychically cuffed the Raven Guard. "It must be done because Ahriman wills it. I am not afraid of what the grand sorcerer wills." She almost believed her words. "When I return, you can be free of this cell. You'll see that not all followers of Tzeentch do things merely for their own benefit. I am forgiving."

White orbs turned on Neferuaat. "Leave now. Our conversation's finished." Tariq, content having the last word, said nothing more.

"When you die," her tone was scathing, "can I have your helm to remember you?"

* * *

Pathoth and Neferuaat walked the _Khermuti_'s twisted corridors with the vizier's honour guard protecting them. Magic infused the enormous ship as water filled a cup, offering servants of the Great Deceiver sips of its power to slake deep thirsts. Neferuaat spared no glance for other practitioners, beings who would never measure to her abilities. Absolution from Pathoth and his ruined pride lay within her grasp; she only needed to conquer Ahriman's trials. There was no hesitancy when she stepped into the immense amphitheatre or a sideways glimpse to those present.

Ahriman's cabal maintained protective wards around the vast duelling ring, powers merging to form a unicursal hexagram beyond the interlocking rings carved in the amphitheatre's floor. Their efforts created a barrier where Neferuaat's trials would take place inside. Pathoth and his retinue joined their erstwhile brethren, the vizier standing to the left of Ahriman. Giving her veil to one of the many nameless serfs, Neferuaat felt her body grow light without the psycurium shielding her mind. She sensed the thin barrier of the Immaterium and Materium with each step. The psionic barrier was lowered; Neferuaat stepped inside before it was raised once more. Taking her position on the centermost dais, the inductee faced the Sorcerer of the Red Cyclops with a flourish of emerald-violet robes.

"This coven bears witness to your first steps into the realms of the sorcerer." Ahriman magnanimously waved a hand at the assembled mages. "Your mind will become the battleground against the winds of magic. So few survive intact; weak minds and weaker souls do not last. You shall be challenged to the limitations of your mortal psyche. Your frailties' will be no more... should you pass. Bow if you accept these conditions." Ahriman's words were met with a pretentious curtsy.

Osis Pathoth stepped forward to lead the opening ritual. Raising his staff, powerful words spilled from his lips, charging the air and manipulating dark energy. Inside the barrier Neferuaat saw the weaves of magic contort and bend reality. Beyond the psionic bastion the images of the Thousand Sons washed away. Colours saturated to where looking at them became painful. She gazed down to find the stone floor roiling, shivering as...

...ruined landscape greeted her. Shattered buildings replaced both amphitheatre and the rows of Thousand Sons. The _Khermuti_, drifting in the void, gave way to the dusty atmosphere of a desolate planet. Neferuaat viewed her surroundings as though it were a half remembered dream. She attempted looking to either side, her vision wavering each time, displaying the same cityscape on the horizon. Standing in the center of a plaza, light and dark were thrown at crazed angles. The ground was soft under her feet. She found herself atop a pile of mangled bodies, deep shadows hiding the dead eyes of festering corpses. She retched, stumbling down from the mound.

Clutching a withered tree for support, Neferuaat's mind struggled to compose itself. Bodies lay butchered, gutted open to lie out in the sun, their ropy innards pooled on the ground. Ravens cawed loudly in the tree, laughing at her weakness. Neferuaat watched the carrion birds feast on scraps of flesh torn from those same bodies. With a scream of disgust she set the birds alight, adding their charred flesh to the rotting stench on the wind.

"Great Weaver," she whispered in a choked voice. She sought the Enumerations while a perverse sense compelled her to look back to find… "No children. Where are the children?"

A scraping sound came from her left where two girls huddled in an alley. Dressed in tattered clothes, they cagily watched the richly robed stranger. Harmless half-starved urchins, the larger one held the smaller one upright, both ready to run. It was a pitiable sight. Neferuaat walked toward the children left in the wasteland, one hand outstretched in concern. They ran at her advance, the smaller one falling as the other scampered down the dark lane, bare feet slapping against the cobblestones. Reaching the child, Neferuaat thought she was looking into a hazy mirror. A psychic shriek of misery threatened to overwhelm her as the image of a child searching for its mother entered her psyche.

"Get away! Don't you touch her!" The other child came out of nowhere. Grabbing the girl's arms, she backpedalled quickly, dragging the smaller one away.

"You need help. Don't you know what might happen to you out here?" Neferuaat surprised herself with the vehemence in which she spoke. "Stop being foolish and accept my aid."

"Stay away," the child's green eyes flashed venomously. "We don't need help. We don't want it!"

A rock flew fast at Neferuaat; a kine shield deflected it away. The children were already fleeing, skeleton-thin bodies wavering in the dusty air, the red sun outlining their vanishing frames. The ravens were back, taking their place once more on the tree's branches to mock the psyker. Neferuaat ignored their jeering cries.

"Children," said a familiar voice, "are the lost innocents of the galaxy. Who saves them from nightmares in their sleep and the horrors when they awake?"

"How are you here?" Spinning on the ball of her foot, Neferuaat saw Tariq under the dying tree. He loomed tall in full war plate, cradling his bolter in both hands, his Mark VI helm hiding his face

"Haven't figured it out yet?" Tariq continued as Neferuaat remained silent. "This world is not one Ahriman created to challenge you. He's inside your thoughtscape as we speak, toying with you. Your shortcomings, fears, even ambitions are on display for him to see and turn against you."

"You ignored my question." Neferuaat took a step back when the Imperial Astartes walked toward her.

"This is your mind, yet the dangers are fed from external sources. Ahriman will attack you with traps, try to waylay and ambush you. Your thoughts created a guard to help you through these dangers. I am that guardian."

Neferuaat circled around the Astartes, still maintaining a safe distance. "If you're my escort, will you follow me wherever I go? An Imperial Space Marine aiding a heretic. Where is your hatred against me?"

Zephyrs kicked up dust in the plaza, rustling the ravens' feathers, erasing the children's footprints. "I'm but an echo to the real Tariq and even then a distorted projection of how you want him to be. If you want advice, you should be focusing on escaping your mind and Ahriman's tightening noose." In the west, the sun began to sink on the horizon.

"If Ahriman is hunting me, he might try and take the children first. They could be bait. Prescience aside, I – we – will find them before he does." Ravens croaked at her proclamation. "Promise your help and protection, Tariq."

"I swear." For a distorted projection, Tariq's brusqueness remained. Neferuaat turned to where the children had fled, their footprints nearly wiped clean. She would seek them out...

... and found herself walking through wheat fields. Flaxen stalks parted before Neferuaat and Tariq, allowing unhindered passage toward their destination. Their goal was the manse overlooking the fields, a magnificent structure of white marble and rich brown wood the young woman was certain she knew. When she paused, attempting to recall from where the memory came, the first pealing of the bells began. Weighty notes, a mournful sound carried on the wind, either to welcome or ward visitors away remained unanswered. At the edge of the fields Tariq halted, his targeting reticule looking for threats along the high stone walls protecting the affluent dwelling.

"It appears abandoned. You don't like having your mind cluttered with others, it seems." Tariq sneered. "Your thoughts show how selfish you are with nobody populating this world unless you want them to."

Admitting to Tariq's observation was beneath her. His words sparked ruminations, ones Neferuaat did not wish to dwell on. It was her mind; why not snap her fingers and summon the children? Centering her thoughts while drowning out the knelling bells, Neferuaat unshackled her astral form from its physical body, Tariq catching her body before it fell to the ground. Liberated in flight, she left behind the fields, hurdling over the high walls, ghosting through the compound and up to the manse doors. A psychic clout, brutally swift, staggered the young woman and threw her back into her mortal frame. Tariq steadied Neferuaat when she faltered.

"What did you see?"

She rubbed her temples. "Nothing but psionic wards." No need to mention the sudden attack, not to Tariq. "I have to traipse around to find the children like a normal human, it seems."

"Hard work," Tariq mock sympathized. "Do we continue?"

Waving Tariq ahead, Neferuaat followed her protector inside the mansion. Grimy dust sheets covered the furnishings, turning everything into misshapen lumps where the cloth needed lifting to discern what lay underneath. A hundred perfect hiding places for children. The reverberating bells clanged on. Vacant chambers of panelled wood and mosaic floors were searched, the children remained unfound, and the Tzeentchian acolyte and Imperial Astartes moved on.

In the manse chapel the portal stood. It was too easy, too simple. Yet in its obviousness Neferuaat felt the dreaded pull of fate. Compelled to step closer, she leaned against the frame, peering into thick shadows. As the bell tolled again, resonating up from the sepulchre's depths, she knew she had to descend.

"Tariq."

The Raven Guard did not question. He led the way down the wide flagstone steps, bolter ready. Neferuaat followed. With each step the bell's rumbling grew heavier, its tone higher. It never stopped until Neferuaat thought the bell was in her mind, threatening to break open her skull with its incessant pitch. She gritted her teeth against the pain. If Tariq heard the sonorous knell, he made no mention. The staircase spiralled down sharply as slivers of light flared, guttering out, and reappearing further down in the gloom.

When Neferuaat's feet touched the stairwell landing, the bell abruptly halted, only for the whispers to begin. Dervishly spinning about her, capering over the stone walls and tumbling from the ceiling, a cacophony of voices assaulted Neferuaat. They urged her on, guiding her footsteps with sly rebukes that they knew where the children hid better than she could guess. Tariq covered their approach as the voices guided Neferuaat through the maze of corridors. They ceased when she approached the black iron door, a grinning death head affixed to the metal. Her hand paused over the handle, uncertain of what lay on the other side. If her actions were being observed by the same attacker from before, she needed to ensure her own protection first—

While she delayed, Tariq acted. He pushed her aside and opened the door.

Two high-pitched voices screeched in alarm, two small bodies hurtled out of the gloom, and two little girls fought Tariq as he caught them. The more spirited one, the near-feral child, squirmed free. Darting away from the Raven Guard, who handed the smaller child to Neferuaat, the girl child stuck her tongue out at the Emperor's angel of death.

"All will be well," Neferuaat whispered in the quiet child's ear. "You'll be kept safe. There aren't any monsters here."

A whispering chuckle slithered in the air, followed by an arrogant tone. "Many deaths through the centuries were the result of such misguided naivety. Your thoughts are hardly the first down that path."

Ahriman, coalescing from the shadowy thoughtscape, struck fast. Telekinetic energy sheared the air, snatching up the defiant child and into his grip before Tariq could grab her. Even then, the Raven Guard acted, his bolter aimed unwaveringly at the sorcerer's helmet. Neferuaat fled behind Tariq with the terrified youngling.

"This isn't the urchin I have need of," Ahriman's poised manner spoke of one who knew his rivals moves. He looked beyond the Raven Guard, unconcerned of the bolter, to Neferuaat. "What would you do to save this one, Neferuaat? Will we exchange one life for another?"

"Let the child go, fiend." Tariq's aim did not waver, targeting reticule flashing a high-level threat rune. Ahriman's taloned fingers scratched the youth's skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. He felt the child's fear, knew it was Neferuaat's. Terror rippled down every chord of her thoughtscape, every nuance a tell to how powerless she was.

"Would you want the child returned even should she change?" The girl whimpered as her left arm twitched involuntarily, beginning a horrid metamorphosis as the Warp was channelled into innocent flesh. Blossoming scales shimmered as bones popped. New digits grew over the child's hand, tearing skin to accommodate the transformation.

Tariq's aim shifted to the child's head. "Those not pure in the Emperor's sight-"

"Neferuaat, control your overeager watchdog. Command the situation," Ahriman's voice goaded. "Can you influence this outcome? Save the child if you can, Neferuaat, for in your own mind should you not be the mistress?"

Tariq's finger tightened on the trigger. The mutation spread up the girl's arm, flesh sloughing away to reveal muscles the colour of rotten fruit. Neferuaat clutched the child she held closer, keeping her from gazing on the horrid scene. She strove to embrace the Enumerations and retain her calm, heart thumping wildly against her ribcage.

"You will not shoot," she ordered Tariq. "I forbid you to shoot."

"Release the child," the Space Marine snarled.

"Cast me out, Neferuaat. Save this child before she becomes a spawn." Tariq's aim moved, reticule targeting the space between the child's eyes. A vexed sigh escaped the sorcerer. "Allow me to remove this brat for us to continue without distraction."

Fragile bones broke, the sound ricocheting off the walls with gut-sickening intensity. Tossing aside the limp, still shivering and mutating corpse, Ahriman advanced, his black staff glowing in eldritch fire.

"Run!" Tariq roared the order as he advanced.

Each bolt round fired was the howl of cannons in the enclosed space. Jarred by his command, all control over the deadly encounter lost, Neferuaat screamed as the air exploded in a dark red mist. Ceramite plates clattered to the floor as what had been Tariq saturated the air. Through the misty rain of blood Ahriman strode, a remorseless, nightmarish figure. Neferuaat could take no more. Hoisting the surviving child in her arms, she raced down the warren of halls. Whispers cajoled her to give up. She barrelled on, skirting corners too quickly, robes tearing, flesh scraping against rocky outcroppings.

A door appeared in the murk. Neferuaat leapt through it and into the sanctity of the cell beyond. The iron portal slammed behind her, its lock grinding into place. Neferuaat flexed her panicking mind over the younger one, wrapping her body around the little girl's. She sought to obliterate their psychic trail and hide them until it was safe to move. Tense moments grew as Neferuaat imagined the door crashing open, Ahriman's wrath descending over them, her unable to defend against his psychic mastery. When the worse did not come to pass, she cautiously raised her head. Dust motes danced in a weak sunbeam illuminating the room of undressed stone. A ruffle of feathers alerted Neferuaat to the ravens at the window high above, their bodies quivering in flux, blocking out the sunlight. They began pecking at the glass. She fixated on the avian forms, hearing Tariq's voice.

_My freedom comes with my death_. He did not fear death. Astartes held no fear. She fled in blind horror while he remained; the noble guardian to the last.

"I never gave you permission," Neferuaat muttered hollowly. "I never commanded you to attack."

The child's sobs reached her ears. "Stay with me! I can't be alone!"

"Be still." Neferuaat's hand clamped over the girl's mouth. "Be still and don't cry out. I promise I won't leave you. What's your name?"

"Katea." Tears spilled from frightened eyes.

"Katea, it's important that you be brave now."

She held the girl's hand as the ravens beat their wings against the weakened glass. Neferuaat swallowed her fear. The window pane shattered. Black wings obscured what little sunlight remained, feathers edged in dry blood coating the cell as the ravens tore downwards, shrieking in delight having found their prey. Claws tore at their hair, beaks stabbed into soft flesh. In the fading light, a...

...reflection of her face off the gossamer wings of a double-headed raven. It perched on Ahriman's shoulder, who now stood under the same tree where Tariq had appeared. Occupying its solitary place in the same plaza, the tree was the only point of reference in the barren landscape. There were no bodies now; the city was dust; no ravens were present save the one attending the mage. Katea cowered behind Neferuaat when she saw the helmed sorcerer.

"I would have thought you to fare better," Ahriman serene voice cut the dead silence. His staff struck the earth, sending a wave of corrupted aether outward. "You hesitate committing yourself to the conflict. You lack swift judgement in securing your devices. Poorest yet, you never scry the future before each fate marker, Neferuaat." The double-headed raven clicked its tongues in disapproval.

"Leave my mind," the young woman whispered. He was the reason Tariq was dead and Katea alone. The potential in defeating Ahriman, the impending fight Neferuaat kept running from, brought her a giddy sensation of elation. She would not be humiliated in her own mind. Revenge, she realised, was truly a powerful motivating force. Her grasp on the Enumerations, already fragile, loosened further. She felt an untapped psychic well inside her when she chose not to strive for inner calm.

"You lost your guardian to find an infant. Do you feel powerful knowing you control a weaker being?"

"Leave my mind." Neferuaat repeated. She crafted a bolt of psychic energy, hurtling it at the sorcerous lord to prove her threat. Ahriman's staff flared. Deflecting the strike, he sent it ricocheting into the rotting wood.

"Petulant girl, now you seek a challenge? Judge how you will attack my person and defend the child at the same time. Let your pride in your abilities lead if it will secure your victory."

"Leave her alone," Neferuaat whispered. "If you touch her, I will-"

The psychic blow, stronger than the one at the manse, sent her reeling. The two-headed raven took to flight, darted madly overhead, spectator to this battle. Neferuaat spat blood from her mouth, letting the crimson liquid cover her hand as she closed it into a fist, feeling the blood squeeze between her fingers. She pushed Katea back with a thought, keeping her at the edge of her sight. Ahriman's staff crackled as tendrils of lightning leapt off its surface. His calm remained unbroken, a figure of legend unafraid of the confrontational whelp.

"What attacks has Osis Pathoth taught you that could end me? He lets others do his work for him, just as you are now."

All attempts at poise and remembering the Enumerations were stripped from Neferuaat. She wanted to crack open the power armour of the warlock and strike at his flesh. She wanted him to bleed. Air froze; earth broke into dust, the roots of the great tree ripped free from the ground to attack. Ahriman supercharged the air with flames, held the landscape firm about his feet, raised his staff to splinter the roots. The tree crashed to the earth, branches snapping off and turning to powdery remains. A psychic blast from Neferuaat, sharp as a force halberd's edge, sheered away a section of Ahriman's right vambrace, taking with it heavy strips of skin and muscle, exposing white bone. The double-headed raven croaked an exhilarated cry.

"Blood paid by blood," Neferuaat taunted, sending a devastating whirlwind of lightning at Ahriman. "Lord Pathoth taught me enough to deal with you." Neferuaat's heart thundered as her feet stepped through the trail of blood Ahriman left. She was rage. She was wrath incarnate. She was relentless. His staff fell from nerveless fingers. Under her blazing sight as the aether roiled through her body and washed over her limbs, Ahriman collapsed to one knee. He raised a hand to supplicate the Alpha-plus psyker. Neferuaat would not be entreated.

She fell into his trap sensing her victory.

Ahriman's retreat had been planned from the start. Pooling his talents for a devastating strike, Ahriman phased through the body of the neophyte, barbed hooks of aether drawing out her very essence. Neferuaat clutched her flesh and soul together as Ahriman ripped at her astral form. Searing cold raced down leaden arms and legs. Life leeched from her skin. Her lungs rasped for breath as the veins in her body burned brighter than a nova. Her mind fought to retain its existence as her vision began to fail. Her frail shell was dying.

Gripping the clawed edges of her aura, wrestling against Ahriman's attack, Neferuaat's custodianship over Katea was taken. Taloned gauntlets descended on Katea's shoulders. Neferuaat turned darkening eyes to the sorcerer and his prey. Pulling the helpless child through a vortex rent from Neferuaat's fragmenting thoughtscape, the grand sorcerer vanished through it, the tear reweaving itself with no way to follow. Neferuaat's mind disintegrated as she fell on hands and knees, seeing nothing, sensing everything.

Above her the sky spun drunkenly. The double-headed raven was caught up in its destruction, shredded into feathers and innards to rain down on the psyker. Scarlet clouds tumbled overhead; speeding past in their flight to a distant horizon Neferuaat would never reach. Moments ticked by in infinite slowness where she watched, for hours, the ominous approaching thunderhead. The sun was snuffed out by a darkness even her burning eyes could not sense, something only felt at the soul's level. Ravens cawed in the tree's broken branches while Neferuaat crawled into the dead roots. She pressed the heel of her bloodied palm to her forehead, finding no use in screaming. No one would hear. The noose had tightened around her throat as Tariq said it would, leaving her choked in the labyrinth of her mind with no escape.

_Why is a raven like a writing desk?_

There, in a pile of windswept leaves beside her, her aching eyes saw it even in the dark. The girl picked up an all too familiar silver death helm. Rare gems covered the stylized crested hood, the Eye of Tzeentch at the center emanating a faint pulse of light. The madness of her mindscape made Pathoth's talking helmet the sanest thing to encounter. "Another riddle."

_You delighted in riddles when you were younger._

"I'm older now."

_I know._ The silence stretched out, empty and cold. Neferuaat turned the viceroy's helm over in her hands, corpse-coloured fingers tracing the adamantium contours. Silver flakes peeled off the ornate surface to be caught up in the wind and spun away into nothingness. What once had been an inferno inside the psyker was now cold, the embers of her anima raked bare. Emptied of emotion, her soul's light weakened.

"Are you still here?"

_I am always here. Today you set yourself free of the limitations your mind imposed on itself. _

"Limits set by my watcher and tutor."

_Until you learned to control your powers. It was never permanent._

"But you still limited me." She jabbed a nail at one of the blue lenses, seeking to dislodge it.

_For your safety. Now that you have overcome these obstacles, you may ascend to a higher plane of acuity and knowledge._ Osis Pathoth's voice grew mellifluous. _Daughter, there is one final task I would see completed. Should you fail, there will be grave consequences._

"Just what is that?" The supine armoured form of Tariq materialised through the swirling wind and dark. Neferuaat's eyes burned uncontrollably. Even when she closed her lids for a moment's respite, she could see beyond them, images overlapping of the recent past and unknown future.

_Kill the Raven Guard. He has polluted your mind and will limit your further growth until he is forgotten._

"Ahriman killed him. I saw Tariq's death." She gazed dispassionately at the Imperial Space Marine. "He holds no power over me. In the end, my trust was misplaced in his strength."

_He must die by your hand for Ahriman only stripped the weak projection from you. You must do this final act. If the Raven Guard is allowed to live in your mind, he will fester unchecked, your potential halted with the doubt this Loyalist filth instils in you. Trust the words of your father. _

Trust, the very lynchpin from the very beginning which had never existed between Neferuaat and Tariq. Every conversation and one-sided debate elicited, Tariq had sown the seeds of doubt. Without her ever knowing, his cancerous speech undermined the foundations of the world and father who raised her. Her merits jeered. Why be drawn to someone who considered her as anything but anathema?

_We, the chosen of Tzeentch, see clearly through darkened glass. Nothing is left untouched in our passing and nothing unknown. Our future is ours to shape, to direct. We guide those too weak to guide themselves. End his influence over you, cut the binding cord._

Pathoth's helmet liquefied, the metal knitting itself into a dagger in her hand. Rising to her feet, Neferuaat thought she heard the distant cry of a child for her to stop. Unclasping the seals holding the despicable helmet in place, she tossed the offending piece of armour aside, laying the flat of the blade across Tariq's exposed neck.

"You could never protect me," she hissed at the Astartes. "My great father considers my state and safety, while you would seek to break it."

She was the mistress of her own mind. Neferuaat brought the blade down while Katea's distant voice wailed in alarm. It rose to a shriek and was silenced as the cold metal slid into Tariq's throat. The wind died away. The darkness ebbed as colour returned across her thoughtscape's horizon. Reality seeped back as the noose constricting Neferuaat released, exposing the amphitheatre where the Thousand Sons watched the end of her trial.

Tariq stayed solid. His blind eyes fixed on Neferuaat with the light in them fading, not a projection of her mind but part of a horrid actuality.

The young woman's sacrifice to Tzeentch was accepted. Blood gushed from slit arteries to drain into carved runes, funnelled from the dais and collected in silver bowls. Hot blood covered her as Neferuaat frantically pressed her hands against the wound, so great even the enhanced physiology of a Space Marine could not stop it. In the great duelling circles of the _Khermuti_, Neferuaat screamed herself hoarse. Even then, her mind continued, psionic waves cracking the ancient crystal roof. It was only the powerful aegises of Ahriman which kept the vessel from sundering.

* * *

Medicae suppressants given to the psyker forced the new being back into its crystalis without letting it encompass the depth of its new abilities. Imprisoning powers beyond its reach until its talents could be allowed – in increments' – to slip loose at the behest of the masters, the psyker was restrained. Ahriman said he never ordered the production of the psycholatent drugs. As with many things, Ahriman lied. The cocktail of suppressants would keep Neferuaat sane, poison slipping through her bloodstream to control a terrified child left with no certainties.

Osis Pathoth administered the dosage. It was his duty as father, the least of all evils he visited upon his child. "In time you will come to understand and be grateful for these tinctures. There is no malice or ill-intent within my actions. I do this for your safety."

Neferuaat was beyond Pathoth's justifications. His voice did not reach her with the potent sedatives rushing through her changed body, mutations brought on by the coven's trial. Where flawless skin showed the night before, now an intricate map of veins traced itself under the thin surface. Lips the colour of a corpse parted slight to draw in a ragged breath. Conceited eyes showed the true mark of the psyker. The once white sclera had turned pitch black; the irises burned an intense blue, while the flesh surrounding her eyes was circled in dark shadows.

"I look hideous," she murmured, a hand limply resting on the Mark VI helmet of the dead Raven Guard. From the corner of her chamber, Argos meowed in sympathy across the shared mental link.

"Do not let your emotions overwhelm you. These changes only show Tzeentch's favour. In time, you will accept them as naturally as you breathe." He brushed back a strand of her hair. "Your accomplishments fill me with great pride once more." The psycurium-laced walls of Neferuaat's opulent chamber eased against the mental bombardment as the remedy took hold. The vizier left her in a drug-induced sleep.

In falsified memories made real, Neferuaat dreamed. Her thoughtscape was her world, far from the course the _Meskhenet _and _Khermuti _sailed, removed from the machinations of deranged sorcerers. She sat patiently under a blooming tree where a solitary raven kept watch in its branches. Here she waited for a black-plated Astartes to come. Together, they would search for Katea. Together, they would keep her and the lost innocents' safe in the Dark Mother's reality, far from the violence of nightmares.


	9. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**023.M42**

**Mining colony Krenzar, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

He was a long way from Dreadhaven. Tilting his head back to take in the night sky – something the pollution of his hive world obscured – the man allowed himself a small moment to realise his role in the great thundering machine of the Imperium. His threadbare jacket was thrown carelessly to the ground, next to a diminishing pile of gravel and churned earth. The mouldy smell of moss mixed with the wet soil, making the man think of a distant home he would never see again. Of a house now just charred ruins and burnt memories, without a family. With a grunt of exertion and suppressing the urge to spit, he returned to the task at hand. While all was silent for the digger it was different for Ehlijah.

Weight crushed Ehlijah's chest. He was pinned in place. Unable to move, the only thing he could do and control was the pitch of his scream. Yet there was no actual weight pressing against his hefty frame; the coffin shielded him. And there was ample room to move, but his claustrophobia raked across the section of his brain where primal fear dwelt. In the logical part of his mind, rapidly dwindling, he knew he had to stop screaming. The limited air in his grave would only run out faster. Darkness pressed around him, crept under his eyelids, bore into his body to swallow Ehlijah whole. Above, the pitter-patter of dirt rattled off the roof of his prison tomb. He strove for calm and lost it in the dark.

"For the Gods sake you crazy bastard, let me out of here!" Bloodied hands hammered the covering, fingernails breaking against the corrugated iron.

Dram halted to stare as the coffin lid shivered, hearing its occupant cursing within. Patiently waiting for the muffled voice to subside, he admired the stars again, thinking how many light years he was from Dreadhaven. Then, scooping another shovelful of dirt into the deep pit, he began humming a hymnal. Ignoring the weakening shouts and pleas was easy, the hammering blows becoming more sporadic until nothing came from the occupant in the pit. The earth closed over the coffin. Soil was smoothed down carefully until no trace remained.

Sweat-streaked and covered in grime, Dram picked up his coat and slung the shovel over his shoulder as the shift bell clanged, summoning the morning workers to the mines. He walked out of the small pit, scheduled to be filled in later that day, whistling a jaunty tune as the sun began rising over the white horizon. Heretics, he believed, deserved no less a painful death than what he had just given to Ehlijah. For all his hard work, Dram knew there were more like the corrupt man, hiding and working alongside him down in Krenzar's shafts and tunnels. Whatever their plans – no matter what it was – he would get to the bottom of it even if it killed him. He chuckled at his mind's choice of words, knowing today would be another glorious one in service to the God-Emperor.

* * *

Krenzar, while a dead planet, held a mining colony of some importance. The atmosphere, made breathable by the Adeptus Mechanicus's processing generators, tasted like chalk dust and metallic shavings. While unpleasant it was bearable. Ten thousand employees with their families thought Krenzar a paradise from where they had come from. Compared to Vespor, the subsector capital, what was not? Vespor, whose forge production supported much of the Syntyche sector; its pollution required masks for people to breath at ease and where life expectancy fell short of forty years, Krenzar was a haven. An easy life carved from white rocks and chiselled out of immense ravines, made by honest blood and sweat.

Nobody gave much thought to the murders on Krenzar. None of the migrant workers or contract labourers did. To the administration, keen on high production numbers and effective management, the deaths created copious amounts of stress. Panic attacks were becoming second nature to the chief supervisor of the Krenzar Mining Facility. Someone, perhaps seeing the killings as a growing threat, hadn't let the matter fall quiet. The Administratum in the Syntychia subsector, notified of the nature of the deaths, reacted instantaneously.

Mayun Dena, recovering from a strong panic attack after receiving a warning of the highest importance, kept his calm. Barely. His staff made sure their underlings fell in to line. One tug, one small breech of decorum, would be the snapping point to turn mild-mannered Dena into a raving lunatic.

The Inquisition had come to Krenzar; as the Stormbird swept over the striped grey and alabaster landscape, heading for the largest and only opened mining pit, chief supervisor Mayun Dena prayed. Oh, how he prayed as his stomach churned and his palms grew sweaty. His facility provided Vespor's forges and refineries with precious adamantium. Krenzar's importance was enough to not be immediately sanctioned. The dreaded thought of _exterminatus _was enough; his face blanched and one of his aides helpfully held up a bronze pot for the chief supervisor's heavy lunch.

Heat blasted down as the Stormbird landed on the tarmac. Engines whined as the pilot, obscured by the tinted windows, powered down the black-painted craft. The golden sigil of the Holy Inquisition, embossed on one wing, glinted off the runway's floodlights. On the other, a chalice of burning fire had been painted. Cannons mounted under the nose and wings of the vessel whirred and clicked, automatically finding targets, but did not fire. That did nothing for Mayun Dena's constitution. He bravely held back another wave of nausea. An orderly file of scribes, savants and grey-armoured storm troopers marched down the Stormbird's lowered ramp. Following them a woman in black ceramite armour came, holding a banner of the Ordo Malleus in one hand.

"Who is the chief supervisor of this facility?" A personal servo-skull attended the woman, its one red lens panning back and forth across the crowded tarmac.

"That is I." Dena strode forward. He tried to swagger even as his confidence flagged, dabbing at his bald pate with a silk kerchief. "You are the Inquisitor we have been expecting, milady?"

"I am Sister Ursula of the Ebon Chalice. I am the voice for my Inquisitor." Ursula rested the banner in the crook of her arm. She took in the bland grey facade of the mining building, built on a low rise offering a view of the yawning pit far below. "You will take me to see the bodies."

Mayun Dena did as he was told, ushering the large gathering inside, down corridors of polished metal and pristine glass, past offices where low-ranking officials worked and cogitators processed reams of code. His hastily prepared speech espousing the installation's importance evaporated in the face of the emissary's direct order. One of Dena's senior staff brought the guests to their quarters while he continued on, the battle maiden and the servo-skull at his back. With them came a cenobite, heavily robed, a beaked mask hiding his features.

"Here," Dena indicated a pair of steel doors where, beyond the swinging hinges, the medicae center lay. "We have kept the bodies in cryostasis for preservation. The head apothecary, Yannis, is the one who deals with the bodies when they're found. Yannis, step lively now," the chief supervisor hollered as he swung open the doors. "He's old and believes in selective hearing, milady."

The smell of antiseptic wash and old blood wafted through the air. Underneath it all lingered the sweet scent of preserved decay. Ursula noted four gurneys off to the side of the chamber, the bodies covered by plastek tarps. On the other side of the room, behind a cluttered table of medical equipment, the lord of the sanatorium presided. Owlish, rheumy eyes looked up from an ancient microscope. The apothecary's liver-spotted flesh was hidden under thick red and white robes. Yannis, thin white hair floating over his scalp like wisps of cloud, tutted.

"Chief supervisor, please respect the rest of the dead within these chambers."

"The very important guest has arrived," Dena emphasized each word while scowling in Yannis's direction. Blinking wide eyes, trying to comprehend Dena's behaviour, Yannis saw the armoured woman behind Krenzar's chief supervisor. A pinched look came to his face, a tremor to his hands, and he left the cover of his desk to face the arrivals.

"Ah, the... Inquisitor?"

"The representative." Mayun Dena corrected. "Yannis will be able to offer any and all information concerning the rash of murders. Yannis, ensure that the Inquisitor's messenger wants for nothing." Before the questions could begin chief supervisor Mayun Dena left, breathing heavily and without respite.

Handing her banner reverently to the silent cenobite, Ursula strode across the medicae to the covered bodies. The servo-skull's internal pict-recorder whirred to life, ready to begin its work. Without pause she raised the tarp off the first cadaver, looking down with cool indifference at the corpse. She was use to death. High on the brow, right between the eyes, she noted the fatal lasbolt hole. The shot spoke of marksmanship. What remained of the back of the skull had been padded with gauze and bound by surgical tape, keeping the fractured bones in the semblance shape of a head.

Yannis, standing alongside Ursula, spoke with deference. "This is the fourth this week that we know of, Sister."

"That you _know_ of?"

He shirked against the condescending tone. "What the mining security finds comes here. I am the senior most medical officer, stating only what is found, and nothing more. Rumours deal greater wounds to the morale of the miners that even I cannot patch up."

"When was the first death recorded?" Ursula opened the eye of the dead man, closed it, tilting the face one way and then the other. Stepping aside, Yannis turned to a tray of dirty autopsy tools, fastidiously cleaning them.

"Prior to my arrival of this facility, just under a year. Before then milady, who knows how many others have been murdered." He watched the Sister of Battle closely, marking the Inquisitorial seal displayed on her left shoulder guard; she passed to the second corpse. "The murderer has skill. Each one, as you no doubt see, was slain executioner style. A single headshot or a swift stroke of the blade from ear to ear, cutting the internal carotid artery. I believe the murderer has some martial skill. The precise headshots indicate military training."

Thick black thread stitched close the once ragged wound on the second body's neck. The third and fourth body had been slain in the exact manner as the first. "What other marks have you found? There must be a corporeal link beyond these fatal wounds." She absently rattled her rosary beads. Yannis found the sound disturbing to the tranquility of his work.

"Sister? I do not comprehend the meaning behind your words."

Ursula turned, scarred mouth twisting. "There is a reason for everything, apothecary, and when someone murders to such extremes it is rarely without cause. Murderers, even the ones driven to insanity, have a method to the madness boiling their brains. The God-Emperor states a reason for every act, no matter how trivial it may be, no matter who it is."

Beckoning Ursula to examine the feet of the first body, Yannis pointed at the left foot. On the arch a simple tattoo was inscribed. It depicted a seated woman illustrated in blue ink, enclosed in a circle. Raising the tarps from the other corpses, Yannis gestured at the same brand inscribed on each sole. "The other tangible link. I do not know if it is cultish or not, though it weighs heavy on me should it be so."

It was not iconography the Sister of Battle was familiar with. Her scowl deepened, the grip on her rosary tightening. "What workers are hired on Krenzar?"

Yannis rubbed his wrinkled jowls. "Over half the personnel are seasonal contractual labour. The remainder are long-term employees with families. Most of these souls come from Vespor, or are migrants from the trading ships passing by Krenzar toward the Syntychia subsector."

"Were you the one to send the request for an inquiry?" Ursula's speculative remark was tentative at best, impertinent at worst. She was not trained to be anything beyond a warrior of faith and exterminator of Chaos, but looking long and hard at the symbol on the dead man's foot, she hated it more by the moment.

"I cannot take credit for the Inquisition's involvement." Yannis gathered his courage. "Sister, is there an Inquisitor on their way to this facility? The workers fear there could be a purge."

The servo-skull floated close to the cadaver's foot, scanning the tattoo and uploading it into its internal memory bank. When the automaton's work was done, Ursula pulled the tarp over to cover the body. "I am their agent on this world, apothecary Yannis. I will root out the cause of these deaths. If the people fear, then it is good they do so. Heretics should fear what they have to hide."

"But will there be an Inquisitor coming?" Yannis stressed his words, poorly concealed terror evident. "There's talk-"

"I am here for the procurement of justice." So saying, the warrior woman kissed the golden aquila on her rosary. "Let it be known the warriors of the Throne watch. We bide our time and strike when the moment of opportunity comes."

He gave a wheezing laugh which rattled his old bones. Yannis was crafty enough to know when prettied words hid a bald-faced lie. "I will take that as a yes. May I have your name to send a dispatch, honourable Sister? When other bodies come tumbling into my hospice."

"Sister Ursula." She gave the sign of the aquila, taking her banner from the diminutive masked cenobite. "Continue about your work as I will be about mine." Leaving the medical ward with her servants, the Sister of Battle was greeted in the hallway by Mayun Dena.

"Milady," he dabbed at his red brow. He was sweating profusely. "Did you find anything concerning the deaths of my employees?"

"The investigation is ongoing, chief supervisor. All is well."

"I see." As well as a blind man, Dena reasoned silently. "And when will your Inquisitor arrive?"

"Presently," Ursula answered, already walking down the corridor. "Supervisor Dena, I need you to summon all the overseers for questioning. Furthermore, I require a full tour of this installation."

"Of course! Say no more, ask what you need and I will do my utmost to ensure it happens. We are all Emperor fearing, loyal subjects here."

"I pray it is so," Ursula said, looking into the red eyepiece of the servo-skull.

* * *

Kyle's ears itched. He thought it was background noise at first. Everything in the gigantic mineshafts was loud. Sounds ricocheted in the cavernous depths from the Adeptus Mechanicus machines; the workers jackhammers cleaved away at the tunnel walls with no mercy. Scratching did little to alleviate Kyle's irritation. He felt his mind buzzing like it did after too many drinks at the stump-pub. When the buzzing persisted, like a droning insect circling his head, Kyle started believing it was fatigue. Triple shifts did that. Then it was no longer the noise or the idea of over exhaustion. The persistent itch moved between his shoulder blades, setting Kyle's mood from an indifferent grey to a foul black.

He was not known for his negativity – like every other miner he had moments but generally he was a jovial man, especially when drinking. Now Kyle was looking for any excuse to lash out. "Dram," he spat in the dusty air, "do you feel that? Like there's bile choking up your throat?"

"I don't get wasted at the stump-pub, Kyle, so I wouldn't know." Large in the arms and broad across the chest, the other miner continued swinging his pickaxe. Sweat beaded his shaven and scarred head. "Not my fault you feel like a grox turd the morning after and have to work multi-shifts."

"Hell no, that'd be a better feeling than right now. I've got a serious issue. It's about the new workers."

"How they're lazy and steal our jobs? How they don't come from the same subsector and aren't a real part of what goes on here? That our seniority or brute strength doesn't impress them?" Dram often heard the one-sided argument from Kyle and the other miners.

"I wish." Kyle scratched ineffectually at the back of his neck. "Just being around them is annoying to the point I'd like to take this shovel and bash the head in of the closest one. Just to make the buzzing stop."

Dram paused mid-swing with his pickaxe. "Buzzing?"

"Yeah, you don't hear it?"

"A lot of machinery's used here, Kyle. Maybe you're confused where the sound's coming from." Dram pointed to the drills and heavy gears crushing the chalk-like substance, then to the trolleys pulling the debris away for smelting. "Lots of noise, lots of echoes in the tunnels and shafts."

"It's from the workers, not the machines."

Offhandedly Kyle pointed at a new team. Dressed in bulky orange work suits, they awkwardly drew attention to themselves. It was in the inexperienced way they used the mining tools and how they moved in Krenzar's lighter gravity. Dram, leaning against his pickaxe, lifted his goggles to his forehead to inspect the unsullied recruits. Across the mineshaft a few of the nine person team were adventurous enough to dash ahead, checking the ridge as they went for new mineral deposits. One worker, smaller than the others, waved at another. Even from the distance, Dram could gauge the worker's discontent in being summoned.

"That team," Kyle stated confidently. "Whenever they're around, I always hear that damn buzz."

"Do you think all of them are making the noise or just one?" Dram readily listened to Kyle's grumbling.

"That one," without hesitating Kyle pointed at the slighter worker. "The one in the lead, but they're all equally annoying."

Dram adjusted his goggles to cover his eyes, spat a ball of phlegm down the mineshaft, and returned to work. "Listening to you in annoying."

"Only because you know I'm right," Kyle laughed, licking dusty dry lips. "And I heard the latest from up top. There's an inspection taking place. Someone got the word out about the murders and missing people. We've got a Sister of Battle waltzing around like she owns the place."

"You actually believe the stories of people going missing in the mines? Here, of all places?"

Kyle rubbed his neck. "Course I do. Work teams vanishing, then the rescue teams go missing too. Weird music playing through the vents, tunnels eating up workers sent in. But what has the uppers really scared is the vessel the battle nun came in on. Inquisition marks, Dram." He paused for theatrical effect. "The Holy Ordos is here! It's a wonder nobody's pissing in fear yet. I bet everyone'll be doing that once it becomes public knowledge."

"Which you'll tell once you're back at the stump-pub." Swinging his pickaxe against the rock face, a large section sheared off to plummet below. Servitors trundled over to add the load to the trolleys.

"Pays to be on good terms with manager Bethal," Kyle hit Dram's shoulder. "Knowing how lonely she gets at night, needing someone to talk to-"

"We've got nothing to worry about with the Inquisition. We're all good servants of the Golden Throne."

"Still, with a battle nun marching about I bet the Inquisitor's not far behind. Do you think Ehlijah knew about this and took the first trader tug out of here? Or he conveniently got lost in the tunnels?"

"Who knows, Kyle? Who the hell knows anything around here anymore?"

* * *

When the first shift bell clanged the miners returned to the elevators and Krenzar's surface. Some would retire to their quarters and families for the evening; others to the stump-pub; all to engage in conversation and a hot meal. A few employees lingered in the tunnels. Assigned by the managers to check equipment, they spoke few words to the Mechanicus adepts working alongside them. Data-logs were taken and fed to cogitator-servitors, behavioural reports summed up to the overseers, kits made ready for the next shift.

One of these workers, finishing a halting conversation with a Mecanicus adept, ducked down a service tunnel. Discreetly resting behind a metal crate, she removed a small vox-transponder from the pocket of her suit, tuned it an encoded channel, and waited as the small light flashed. Presently a voice trickled through. All reconnaissance transmissions had been this way, from the moment Amara Kith departed the Stormbird disguised as a scribe to donning the uniform of a miner.

"My report, Milady Kith."

"What did you find?" The Inquisitor warily kept her eyes on the mouth of the tunnel.

"The apothecary did not officially summon the Inquisition. He denies those charges."

"Fascinating," Kith dryly noted. She shifted her weight, massaging her left shoulder. "Tell me something worthwhile."

Ursula's voice tensed. "Each identified corpse has a tattoo on the sole of their left foot. I am certain it is allied to the Ruinous Powers, saints damn them all, for there is no sanctioned Imperial Cult I know which bears it. The heretics," and Kith pulled the vox-transponder away as the Sister's vitriol carried, "were killed in military fashion. Headshots, carotid arteries severed. I believe we are dealing with a former Guardsman."

"Who," Amara Kith mused, "knowing something foul's running around Krenzar, took matters into his own hands. Possibly the same person who requested aid when he realised this was larger than he thought."

"A righteous vigilante," the Sister of Battle murmured. "It does my heart good to know such people exist out here in near-lawless space."

The second shift bell clanged. Massive gears echoed down the length of the ample mining shafts; elevators rumbled down, bringing with them the overnight crew. "What about the overseers? Anything in the facility files which correspond to the rumours?"

"Many. The rumours have a tangible base. Teams vanishing in the tunnels have been filed as mining fatalities caused by the environment. Action is rarely taken in finding the poor souls. The infrequent search teams sometimes disappear as well." Ursula's voice faded out. Amara lifted the transponder to find a better reception angle, picking up the woman's voice again. "-the search teams' primary objective is to reclaim equipment over recovering bodies, costly apparatuses critical for the boring of new tunnels."

"I heard the same. What has the dear Mayun Dena done in regards to this?"

A bitter laugh. "His attempts at covering his tracks will bring nothing but dishonour. The acolytes have extracted files which survived in the deeper memory holds. Upon inquiries with the Mechanicus to the energy fluctuations in the various mineshafts, they confess confusion. They seek answers, stating the facility is old. If there is truly Chaotic taint here, Inquisitor, I do not believe it has infected the Adeptus Mechanicus." Her voice wavered again as interference came down the link.

"You must be very popular with the Krenzar administration right now, Sister Ursula." Amara Kith imagined the battle maiden's candid demeanour was not making her many friends. "How do these events tie in with a non-sanctioned cult on our hands?"

"I trust in the God-Emperor to guide us in that regard, milady. Where He leads me, I shall be His judgement."

Grimly, Amara knew the Sister of Battle was right. "Continue with your investigations. Have my adepts search the employee files of those working on Krenzar for the past several years. Our vigilante might have been here for much longer than we first thought. And Sister Ursula?"

The link broke. Amara slapped the machine, struggling to realign the vox-transponder as the tramp of heavy footfalls came down the service tunnel. The light sporadically lit up, the channel coming under heavy interference. Chancing it, Amara whispered loudly, "Have Fray stand-by with the Stormbird. I might need a quick evacuation if-"

"Hey! Get your arse back in line with the others!" The crate Kith was behind was unceremoniously kicked aside. Looming over her was a stern-looking guard, authoritatively holding a power maul in his hand. "You know the rules, stay within the assigned areas. Friggin' migrant help, lazy bums going off on your own."

Raising her hands in a placating gesture, she dropped the vox-transponder to the ground, crushing it under the heel of her boot. The comforting weight of her bolt pistol, nestled in its harness and concealed by the bulky contours of the suit, kept a smile on her face against the guard's animosity. Not that she would use it against him, Kith thought as she joined the shuffling line of second shift miners. If Lord Saeger's dispatch to the young Inquisitor was accurate, she would be using the weapon against a new tumour of the Dark Mother's growing cult.

The events of Isfarena were a subsector and a year past from Krenzar, yet the similarities between the two were there, if delicate. Least of all the tattoos the corpses bore. As Selina's hissed divinations stated, the rot in the Syntyche sector was great. However far this Tzeentchian cult grew, Amara Kith would hunt it down. And come the day she met Ahriman, bolt pistol pointed at the arch-heretic's head and her sword at his throat, she would know the truth of Katea's fate. Marching with the other miners to the southernmost tunnels, she examined her surroundings closely. The mine seemed large enough to allow the safe passage of a gunship. Amara Kith prayed Ursula had received the last transmission. She did not know any quick retreats from the Krenzar mines if things went foul.

Not all were in the same situation as the Inquisitor.

Dram, his work shift finished, was beginning another nightly obligation. Reciting personal oaths and vespers prayers, checking his lasrifle, Dram consulted his data-slate of the southern ventilation shafts. He committed the route to take to memory. Occurrences', vanishings as he liked to call them, had been happening in those tunnels with alarming frequency. When these disappearances broke out, Dram knew he needed to be quick to staunch it.

It meant the heretics were growing bolder.

A brief check of the night shift roster confirmed a lingering hunch. Three names matched those to the group Kyle singled out. If luck and the God-Emperor were not guiding his hand, Dram did not know what else to believe. Leaving his small hab-unit with his lasrifle swaddled in greasy rags, Dram nonchalantly walked down the colony's residential quarters until he arrived at the atmospheric processing plant. He Reaching the ventilation ducts, he crept into the dusty interior from a badly rusted hatch. Crawling forward on hands and knees, a small torchlight strapped to his vest illuminating the way, Dram slithered down the metal duct.

Tense hours later, he arrived at his assigned point. Exiting the ducts on to a gantry, cramped muscles protested as he stood. Letting his eyes adjust to the underworld gloom, Dram looked down the colossal tunnel. The reported disappearances began further in the southern tunnel recesses. Three hundred meters north of Dram was the main site he had just been working at. Sounds of the overnight shift could be heard, laser torches hissing as they carved into the rock, hammers ringing against the stone. Further south winding and snaking corridors disappeared in the deep dark, the corridors where the vanishings had occurred.

Keeping to the upper platform, every one of his senses heightened, Dram hunted. Ghostly light shimmered under the white rock face and half-heard whispers spilled from the exposed pipes. The man cautiously came to a secondary tunnel diverting from the larger main. Hurrying along for another five hundred meters, he knelt, removing the rags around his lasrifle. Dram sighted down the scope, searching.

In the ruddy glow of their work lights, Dram saw the heretics. They were not far from the main site, keeping to the shadows and insolently practicing their foul religion. Converging in an auxiliary tunnel, they preformed a polluted induction rite. A new inductee, coveralls speckled in blood, was given his mark of damnation while the others chanted. Words which made the skin crawl and set the mind on fire hissed in the air. Still quiet, Dram adjusted his aim through the lasrifle scope, exhaled quietly and fired. The first lasbolt punched through the murk, scoring a headshot that left no question to the heretic's death. The second lanced through another's neck, almost severing the spinal column. The third created a hole through—

Dram heard the crack of a bolt round discharging and saw the chest of a miner explode in a spray of gore. Someone else was amongst them. Quickly Dram threw his lasrifle over his shoulder, racing along the gantry. The heavier gun fired again. It echoed oddly in the tunnels, the sound rolling back on itself. Descending the closest ladder, Dram saw the owner of the bolt pistol finish off the last heretic as his feet touched the ground. He held the new arrival in the sight of his lasrifle, barking the command, "Arms up where I can see them. Drop your weapon."

The worker dropped the weapon immediately and raised her arms. She turned, looking at Dram with amusement. "The vigilante of Krenzar?" she queried.

"I'll slit your throat, renegade," Dram spat. In the work lights, he recognized her as one of the miners Kyle had pointed out.

"Before you jump to conclusions," the woman spoke coolly, "I want to say we both work for the God-Emperor."

"Unlikely. Your sort wouldn't hesitate backstabbing each other if it meant getting rid of me. To think I'd fall for such an obvious trap is pretty stupid." His finger tightened on the trigger.

"I thought you'd be more inclined to having an ally. Would you really chance shooting an Inquisitor?" The weight of the mentioned title echoed in the mammoth tunnel, lingering with impetuousness. Dram found he did not want to take the chance.

"Prove you're an Inquisitor." In turn, the woman carefully withdrew a necklace. Dram's eyes caught and held the hallowed Inquisitorial Seal, three horizontal bars bisected by a vertical one of ruby and gold. Dram swore, checked himself, and made the sign of the aquila. He almost bowed, reigning in the impulse, knowing it was his Guardsman training to order and rank influencing his actions.

"I am Inquisitor Amara Kith in service to the God-Emperor. Any violence against me is violence against the Imperial Truth. I came here after receiving a broadcast for aid. I take it you were the one who sent the distress call." Picking up her bolt pistol, she dusted off the weapon's casing, frowned at something.

"How did you know it was me?" Dram wiped sweat off his scalp.

"I didn't. I took a guess and you supplied the answer." Checking the rounds in her pistol, Amara disdainfully looked at the equipment the cultists had used for their arcane practices. "Do you have a name or should I call you Krenzar's vigilante?"

"Dram. If you don't mind me saying, Inquisitor," he glanced around the tunnel, lowering his rifle slightly. "We should leave now before others come to check on their friends."

"I was expecting more than this," Amara replied, nudging a body with her foot. Blood pooled with the dusty surroundings, misting the air with its metallic edge. She felt cheated at how little fight the heretics had given. Her head snapped up when the first discordant notes issued from the pipes. "What's that?"

"We need to get out of here." The edge in the man's voice chilled Amara. "Hurry up."

Rushing back to the scaffold ladder, Dram shone his light over bare rock. Stabbing the beam upwards, he saw the glimmering white stone ripple and swallow the metal platform above. Beside him, the Inquisitor saw the same thing. She hauled Dram back from the wall. The intensity of the song increased, becoming a constricting band wrapping around his head. It became harder for Dram to focus as the rock face shuddered in front of him. A section of the tunnel tore away as corrupted miners rushed out, opening fire with slug guns and laspistols, howling devotional prayers.

Five hundred meters to the main tunnel. Away from the song's influence. The words raced through Dram's mind as he sprinted over the uneven surface of the tunnel floor. He had heard those notes once, before killing his first group of heretics. The song sent them into a wild frenzy, compelling them forward even as Dram's shots should have kept them down. Dram had barely gotten away with his life then. Now it might take a miracle to make it out in one piece. Beside him Inquisitor Amara Kith kept pace, turning back to fire a quick three round burst at the cultists. Training kicked in. Dram provided covering fire for the woman, a heavy rush of adrenaline surging through his body at the sight of enemies after his blood.

The pipes sang on, shrill notes soaring higher and higher. Dram's precise shots started wavering as the vise around his head tightened. Next to him the Inquisitor discharged the rest of her clip, fumbling in the indistinct gloom to reload her empty weapon.

Three hundred meters became two hundred. Dram faltered as a bullet pierced the calf of his left leg. He swore, reeling from the pain's abruptness, unable to hold his body weight. Dram fell, twisting around in the same moment to see where his enemies were. He grabbed his lasrifle, shooting one cultist in the stomach before Amara pulled him to his feet. The boiling pressure in his brain subsided, leaving him to think clearly over the shrieking pipes. One hundred and fifty meters. Another section of the tunnel wall melted, revealing more cultists. Their countenances were mutated, twisted features leering out of the dark, flickering in and out of Dram's torchlight. Amara aimed the barrel of her gun at the first target. His chest blossomed into a red spray of flesh and stinking guts. The second and third cultist shared the same death of the first. Leaving the others to fumble over the corpses of their brethren, Amara Kith and Dram reached the main tunnel.

"Can you keep up?" she asked, ducking around the corner to fire blindly at the Krenzar defectors.

"Course I can," he snapped back. He glanced down at his leg, swearing at the blood and each squelching footstep.

They pushed off, running back to the floodlights and din of the central site. Above them and to either side, the pipes thrummed as the horrid musical cacophony played out. No matter how fast Dram's feet worked even with his injury, his movements felt ponderous. He would die down here, heretics pouring from the walls like waves of filth, lost under their jackboots. Even holding his lasrifle was a struggle. Amara pulled alongside Dram. Close to her the song's affects receded, vigour returning to his body. The Inquisitor's breath was coming fast and sharp. Her face was drawn. Sweat poured down skin looking older than what Dram had first seen.

Piercing light, its intensity blinding Amara and Dram, suddenly washed over the dark tunnels. A whining drone filled the air, becoming a thunderous roar loud enough to blot out the infernal song. With it came scorching heat and the unmistakable snarl of an assault cannon firing. Pulling the Inquisitor down, Dram whooped at the Stormbird's passing. Its cannon blazed at the heretics, high-calibre rounds turning them into shreds of flesh and spatters of blood against the distant walls. Rock dust filled the mineshaft, kicked up by the powerful engines. Banking in the enormous mining tunnel, the gunship landed with little grace, the craft's arrival nothing short of a vision brought to life.

At the top of the lowering ramp the pilot, Fray, waved to the Inquisitor. Rising to her feet, Amara Kith helped Dram hobble up the incline of the Stormbird and find a seat in the craft. "Your skills are remarkable, Fray. I didn't know you could pilot the ship this well in the tunnels. You must be mad or lucky." She passed a medical kit to Dram. He took it with a grunt of thanks, rummaging through the contents to find a field dressing. Behind them the ramp slammed shut.

"I'm the best pilot you've got. It's neither madness nor luck, its talent. We need to move," Fray's usual calm voice was terse. "Sister Ursula was firm that I recover you when you didn't respond to the timed vox calls."

"She's always terse," Amara replied, buckling herself into the co-pilot's throne. She touched wrinkles on her face with concern. As colour, sound and smell bled back for her, Amara Kith was only too aware how far she had strained herself. Her muscles were stiff, and rolling her left shoulder brought her considerable pain. Growing old in the line of duty was not something she relished.

"Things grew interesting while you were away, Inquisitor." Pitching the engines to a howl, Fray steered the craft with finesse through Krenzar's tunnels. Outside the Stormbird, Amara Kith saw frightened faces of the workers flash by until they became a blur.

"Interesting how?"

Tightening his tourniquet, Dram let the conversation flow over him. His grisly work discovered, Dram prayed the Inquisition was capable of ridding the heretics from the colony. He saw Krenzar's night sky rushing up to greet them, the damned whiteness of the tunnels falling away. For a moment, a very brief moment, Dram remembered another transport. There had been others with him in the vessel, men and women of the Dreadhaven 17th who never— He left the thought unfinished. Below, Krenzar's dead landscape spread out, the Stormbird hurtling back to the facility.

"After the last vox hail went unanswered, the good Sister sent me to get you. With the situation below and the one starting up top when I left, I wouldn't be surprised if Ursula wants to personally escort you everywhere. Ah," Fray checked the Stormbird's auspex, "it seems we have someone coming to greet us on the tarmac."

"What's happened up here?" Amara, annoyed by Fray dancing about the subject, started drumming her fingers on the arm of her throne.

"What about him? Can he be trusted?" Fray inclined his head to Dram. The man, covered in blood and dust, looked hollowly from the pilot to the Inquisitor. Not showing any emotion, the Guardsman in that moment seemed to be the personification of the castoffs of Imperial society.

"The vigilante of Krenzar," she responded, "is our esteemed guest. We can trust him."

Fray concentrated on landing the craft first. It gave him a chance to organize his thoughts. Unbuckling himself from the pilot throne, he moved to stand by the opening of the Stormbird. Fray looked long and hard at his employer. "Sister Ursula found things. Things the supervisors wanted kept hidden. She ordered the storm troopers to shut down the Krenzar facility and to detain everyone. She started locking people up, then things got nasty. The chief supervisor seems to have gone-"

Fray staggered, jerking violently as the lasbolt seared his stomach. His body pitched down the ramp's incline to rest at the feet of Mayun Dena. The chief supervisor of the Krenzar Mining Facility clutched his laspistol in both hands, shaking with the rush of murder. Seeing other targets, the man's eyes rolled wildly. His body seemed to be under someone else's control, each movement puppeteered and stilted. Raising his weapon once more, Dena fired off an erratic volley. Amara Kith clutched her torso, slumping to her knees in shock. Her work glove came away covered in blood, a bright crimson red.

"I had to do it! I was ordered! She told me to do it!" Mayun Dena shrilled before his head ruptured under Dram's single, well-placed lasbolt. The body of the former chief supervisor crumpled on to the tarmac.

"That's the second commander I've killed," Dram muttered, kneeling by Amara's side. She felt pressure against her deep wound. Her tired body slide into unconsciousness as armoured storm troopers raced from the grey facility.

* * *

"Mother, they came." Scampering down the trail with a grin on his face, Rais stopped before the Dark Mother, his brow sheened in sweat. "Just like you said, the Imperial servants came. I saw the fight, everything! They killed your followers. They might be back soon!"

+Peace, Rais.+ The Dark Mother's gentle voice soothed over Rais' anxiety. Neferuaat cupped his dirty face in her corpse hands and smiled, whispering, "What a wonderful boy you are, going to such trouble to deliver this news."

Rais grinned at Neferuaat's praise. "What do we do?"

"It is time for us to leave." Neferuaat turned her burning eyes to the encampment below. "Accompany the honourable brother Hekmut and find Chief Magos Krauskopf. Tell him we are finished here." One of the Rubricae, storm bolter in hand, moved tediously down the pathway. Rais followed the Thousand Son proudly; glad to have been chosen for the task. Behind him the jealously of the other children lashed the air, tangible enough to feel.

Preparations had been underway to begin the evacuation from Krenzar even as the battle in the tunnels raged. She had seen the fight from a distance, just as her 'eyes' above ground showed what was taking place even now. Neferuaat looked at the makeshift city, the small outcropping where she held council an excellent vantage point. The people who dwelt amongst the quarry worked ceaselessly. People who, freed from Imperial shackles, had readily taken up her cause. It was so frightfully simple how they traded one belief for another, willing to be guided with only the barest of persuasion. Krenzar's once loyal workers, finding a calling higher than their false religion, now served the Great Architect. Reaching out with her mind, the sorceress lingered on the uppermost thoughts and emotions of the workers toiling toward her master's enterprise.

+The freed people, listen well.+ Neferuaat's voice touched all present. +To those bearing my mark, it's time for you to step forward. Your hard labour is to be well rewarded. And the dear, blessed children, a new journey to the stars will set in motion the next step in your life.+

There would be no accounts when the Inquisition arrived. And when they came, as they would with fire and bolter to these caverns, no tales would be told. One by one and without effort, the flames of the miners' souls were extinguished. Neferuaat guided the aetheric gale with skill, watching each soul enveloped in the howling tempest fed back into the Warp. The precious machines and drills began to whirr down. Krauskopf, unhappy at the turn of events, bitterly spoke of the loss of the machines. His pleas for the Skitarii to return for them were ignored. When the last worker's body had slumped to the floor and the final mechanical note was silenced, the Dark Mother moved on with her entourage.

The children held the long train of Neferuaat's veil out of the dirt while the Rubricae protected the procession. Some infants limped from the brand recently inscribed on the soles of their feet. That pain, like any other, would pass in time. Silence was the only music now in the depths of the dead planet. What Ahriman vainly sought for hadn't been here. He had been wrong, and the knowledge that the infallible grand sorcerer misinterpreted Saint Gilles writings warmed Neferuaat. Once Pathoth learned of this wild chase, she could only imagine how he would use it against Ahriman.

Halting at a smaller cavern, the psyker reached out to pluck the skeins of the Great Ocean. Past the planet, through the tumbling void and stars, she sent a missive to one soul. Neferuaat's psychic communication formed frost at her feet, lightly coated the armour of her guardians, and made the children shiver in discomfort.

+Nothing is here as you thought it was, great lord. I believe your knowledge was... incorrect.+

Just beyond the Huldah subsector came an answer. +Make leave. The Inquisitorial dogs are amassing.+ Displeasure raced down the psychic link – from her message or the future implications behind it – strong enough for Neferuaat to visualise Ahriman's scowl.

Neferuaat produced a small glass pyramid from her violet robes. Its dimensions no larger than the palm of her hand, the psi-crystal rippled with contained energy. Setting it in the center of the underground chamber, she worked an esoteric pattern around it. With an intense burst of Warp energy, a small gateway opened. Beyond its shimmering edges the deck plating of a familiar vessel, and an armoured sorcerer, waited. The Dark Mother and her coterie passed through, the psionic pyramid shattering in their wake. Krenzar was left behind in their wake, another lonely colony spinning on its way, removed from the larger game.

* * *

Amara Kith woke up in Krenzar's hospice, groggy and extremely nauseated, but alive. A plethora of tubing cycling fluids to and from her body stuck out from her wrists like a crazed form of plant life. It hurt for her to move or twitch. A hazy face with too many wrinkles, jowls and liver spots focused before her. The apothecary... what was his name?

"Yannis?" the name came out a mashed gurgle.

"Finally awake, I see, dear Inquisitor." His voice was good-humoured, if forced. "And looking much younger than when you first arrived." A hand mirror was placed in front of Amara. The wrinkles once lining her features were gone, replaced by smooth youthful skin. She looked at the tubes, guessing at the liquid contents flowing inside.

"Are these tubes for-"

"Your rejuvenate? Indeed, they are. Sister Ursula provided a sample of the concoction and I was able to duplicate the drug." He moved around the cot to check the machine, exuding a nervous energy.

Shrewdly watching the apothecary, Amara said, "Difficult work to remake. You're quite gifted to figure it out given the limited resources of this facility."

Yannis paused in his motions. "Between you and I, Inquisitor, there is a reason I was sent here. Krenzar wasn't a post of my choosing. I angered many in my profession with my... research. I was far too good, delved too deep and my talents were the envy of many." His anxiety over his patient's rank abated for a moment. The apothecary's tired eyes slightly watered. "I was packed off here to end my days."

"Enemies in high places, apothecary? What research did you follow?"

"Nothing heretical, I assure the Inquisitor." Again, the forced humour seeped into his voice. "The subsector governor didn't approve of genetic splicing, if you want to know. He believed it went against certain religious views."

His mannerisms were likeable. She hadn't found a suitable physician to take into her confidences yet, though Yannis's skills would be better suited than working in a colony. "Would you consider a new employer, Yannis? I can't promise the work will be easy, but your talents won't be wasted." She winced against the pressure in her midsection.

"Move carefully, Inquisitor. Your sutures will come out if you're reckless." Yannis assisted the woman to sit upright before answering her question. "I would relish working for the Throne given the chance."

The apothecary might have said more but hushed at the clattering of armoured footsteps. Sister Ursula stalked into the medicae ward, the servo-skull with her and Dram following. His calf was properly bandaged and set in a supporting leg brace. Both saluted Amara Kith, dark circles under Ursula's eyes attested to the lack of sleep in the hours following the turmoil.

"Milady Kith, you are well?"

Amara smiled tiredly. "I'm certain I'll be given a clean bill of health, and then we can all be on our way. Was Fray...?"

"He is dead. I oversaw his final rites and consigned his body to purifying flames." Ursula's abrupt tone masked her grief. "May he be kept safe by the Emperor Everlasting."

"It's always the best who go first," Amara murmured. Fray's involvement with the Holy Ordos hadn't been long. Having found him after Isfarena, Amara enlisted Fray's expertise in flight craft to supplement her limited knowledge. He had been competent. Replacing him would be difficult, but not impossible. His death would not be the first or last in her warband, Kith knew. She tried not to think about such things.

"Heed my council, Inquisitor, we need a new pilot." Ever the pragmatist even in times of sorrow, Ursula's statement brought Amara Kith out of her reverie.

"There's a prison moon orbiting Vespor. We can find a proficient pilot there. Just like Fray, all the good ones are criminals." The Inquisitor beckoned Dram closer. "The vigilante of Krenzar. If not for you sending out the distress beacon, the cult would have overrun Krenzar. If you will, please give your full name and rank."

Dram's Guard training resurfaced. He held himself stiffly if not at full attention, hands clasped behind his back. The white dust from the mines still clung to his boots. "Former Infantryman Dram Gehnatus of the Dreadhaven 17th Company, 75th Dreadhaven Regiment, of the Emperor's Imperial Guard Infantry."

The servo-skull's red eye flashed twice. It drew up a hololithic pane, the green surface scrolling with a vast amount of information. The Guardsman's folder, a list of his merits and deeds, was laid bare to read. Rotating the pane for Dram's convenience, Kith read off the summary. "After a long engagement with Orks, your battle company was victorious. Sent back to Dreadhaven on standard rotation, you were given time to go off base to meet with family. Is this correct?"

Dram swallowed hard. "It is, Inquisitor."

"Could you clarify the events which led you to kill the majority of your neighbourhood in a single night?" Violent acts on the hololith were highlighted. Images burned into Dram's memory from that night surfaced in each pict the Inquisitor scrolled through. The very things he had run from, the past he thought buried, now hovered before him. It was time for Dram to confess his crimes.

"They killed my family," he replied. There was no use hiding the truth from the Inquisition. "My mother was called a witch. She wasn't, but it didn't stop her murder from happening. The mob took my sister and hung her from the district church because she was touched. Just like you are, Inquisitor, but she never hurt anyone."

Amara arched a blonde eyebrow. "Like I am? Would you care to explain your statement."

"A friend of mine called it a buzzing." Dram struggled to explain it. "It repels people, makes them anxious. You had it about you in the tunnels. My sister Vykos had the same thing, only worse. I suppose I was use to it because she was my sister. I grew up with it." Nodding sympathetically, Amara paused at one pict. A gutted corpse, the head caved in by a heavy object, flesh charred. What person would not desire revenge against cruel injustice?

"To the rest of the district, Vykos was something to be killed." Clearing his throat, the former Guardsman continued. "I got back at the people who do the greater Humanity a disservice. I left behind family when I shouldn't have. Nobody was there to protect them when it counted."

"And to escape the Arbites and tribunal, you took the first available freighter and went wherever it landed," Amara concluded the story.

"Yes, Inquisitor. When I found the rot here, I knew what I had to do. I sent out the call for help and got to work." Nothing was left to say. There was no hesitancy in Dram's voice. Dram's sister, a true Pariah, one of the rarest being to find in the galaxy, had spurred his drive and devotion. Amara Kith approved his fervour for justice even while the tactics were underhanded.

She was a good judge of character. Inquisitors usually were. Amara Kith prided herself on being exceptionally discerning. Dram's temperament was the sort she required. "Dram, let me extend you an offer. This file from the Guard and the memory of Dreadhaven will disappear with a few well-placed clicks. Your crimes will be absolved in the Emperor's light, but for this you will have to make a great commitment to a much higher power until the day you die."

Dram held himself at full attention. "When the call comes, who can refuse service to the God-Emperor, Inquisitor?"


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**023.M42**

**Anaike, Vespor's prison moon, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

It was night time; the hallway lumen strips were dimmed, but enough light remained for the guards' patrols. Lights out was strictly enforced with truncheons silencing those who spoke. Yet it did not stop the convicts' whispering endearing threats to one another.

"Twist, are you listening? You know tomorrow's going to be a fun day, right?" Jaala's hissing voice reached Kelvenia's cell across the narrow corridor. Leaning against the plasteel bars of her cage, Jaala dangled something sharp in her thin hands. "I always wondered if twists have red blood. Tomorrow's gonna tell."

Other prisoners would have cowered knowing they caught the eye and temper of Jaala. Kel was one of the few who simply could not care. She gave no thought that she somehow angered Jaala, or she was a dead woman walking. She refused to panic about tomorrow's 'fight'. Kel knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that _his _infernal luck would protect her. That was how it worked. The same luck had killed other would-be murderers in Anaike's crowded cells. Bad fortune was the only reason she had stayed alive for so long. While Kel guessed about Jaala's death tomorrow, her thoughts turned to more pressing matters.

Kelvenia envisioned how she would kill the person who put her in Anaike. His actions dropped her into this horrible pit. His motives garnered Kel's prison sentence. She hated him for it. Some nights she would remain awake pondering of toxins powerful enough to fell a gene-enhanced giant. Staring at the bare ferrocrete wall opposite her small cot, Kel fantasized magnetically locking a melta bomb against his armour and pushing the detonator. His luck, having bled off on to Kel, would not keep him from harm's way any longer. She hoped he would beg. A craven coward like himself would. There was even the slim chance he would be honest to save his questionable soul. Chuckling at the image and the flaunted lies he would craft, the woman thought knifing him would—

"Mutie! Did you hear me? I'm going to cut your wrists and watch you bleed on the courtyard tomorrow!" Jaala hit the bars of her cell, scraping her shiv against the metal. "You're going to crawl through your blood and I'll slit you from throat to gut."

"Shut up, Jaala." A rude gesture expressed Kel's defiance.

Mutant. Twist. Black blood. The Imperium had a dozen names for these anomalous citizens, holding contempt for them a hundredfold. There never came a word of acknowledgment for these same outcasts who helped grease the wheels of the Imperium. Kel seethed about this great injustice, even if half her heritage came from mankind. When people looked her, they saw someone no older than twenty standard Terran years, all awkward limbs, far too tall, and with oddly slanted eyes. A pity the better half of her mixed blood never wanted her around. While the humans jeered and laughed, the elder race who glided between the stars did not glance at something below their sight.

"Going to pray for luck from the Golden Throne?" Jaala's unimaginative taunts were beginning to wake the other inmates. "He'd never look your way. Not even the guards are gonna stop me tomorrow when I slice your fingers off one by one."

Kel chuckled. She would never call upon the corpse on a throne. Isha, blessed mother of life, answered all prayers. The Eldar goddess would grant her revenge against the liar and hypocrite who placed her in these grey walls. Why pray for luck when she had it in spades? The same foul luck a damned warrior needed to flee the worse situations had become her armour against the other convicts.

"Last I was told the Emperor doesn't look at anyone like us in Anaike." Kel's heightened eyesight found Jaala in the murky dark. "Maybe you should start praying and see if it pays off."

"Don't drop me in the same boat as you, twist."

"Tomorrow Jaala," Kel replied with a forced air of cheer. She brushed back her lank dark hair. "Everything's decided tomorrow."

With any luck, Jaala's shiv would turn on its owner and gut her. With greater luck and Isha's blessing, Kel might one day be free of Anaike. She crossed her fingers to the last, breathing a prayer to Isha, wondering if she listened to those sharing half the blood of a celestial race. Kel needed divine aid to track down that charlatan, then a little more to end his unnaturally long life.

* * *

"There was heavy digging in Krenzar's lowest levels. Recent surveys from Mechanicus teams believed that what the cultists were looking for never existed, or had been taken a long time ago. Undoubtedly this is what Mayun Dena attempted to hide before the Inquisition appeared." Sister Ursula's soft voice mirrored the calm atmosphere in the conservatory. Perusing the growing mounds of data-slates with the Inquisitor and Guardsman, she sorted and divided the relevant material into their respective piles. "A very large Dark Mechanicum undertaking was present. The number of bodies recovered, milady-"

"Showing it had been there for a time. Each corpse bore the same tattoo on their left foot. The same mark was found on the bodies at Isfarena. Before that, there was the excavation of Imperial colony 1034 with Chaos forces fighting the Eldar. No references to the Dark Mother were recorded then, but the colonial world was considered important to the Eldar. Enough for them to fight for what was hidden there." Kith entwined her fingers, leaning over the growing piles of evidence, wondering how it meshed together. All of the data, old and new, came from the cask Lord Saeger bestowed to her when she had become an Inquisitor.

Clad in loose fitting black fatigues, Dram drank a cup of stimm tea while trying to wrap his head around the Inquisitor's analysis. Initiated into the Inquisitor's warband, the man kept quiet until he could offer advice to the conversation. The knowledge granted to him made his head ache, with forces they followed only whispered about in the Guard regiments. The hunt for the Dark Mother appeared to be a personal quest for Amara Kith. Her reasons were unknown to the former Guardsman. Dram was not about to ask until she wanted to explain it to him.

Across the table sat Ursula, head bowed in contemplative thought. "The colony predates the other excavations by twenty years, milady. Perhaps the diggers were searching the rest of the Syntyche sector for the next link in the chain." Wearing her militant order robes, Ursula radiated a frigid attitude tempered in the supremacy of her faith. "A sordid trail we shall uncover in time."

"There's a thought." Amara began pacing the length of the conservatory. "Judging by the reports of colony 1034, it was important enough that the Harlequin attempted to stop the Thousand Sons from completing their objectives."

Docked at high anchor, the Dauntless-class warship _Iridescent Blade_ was a fearsome sight. Proudly displaying the sigil of the Inquisition on its prow, the vessel turned aside the curious and less savoury ships in the space lanes. The Inquisitor rubbed her eyes. Beneath her hooded grey robe she wore a mail undersuit, her sword at her side, and her rank's burden heavy on her shoulders. Even in periods of rest Amara was ready for a fight. What clash she would find on her own vessel was baffling, another odd factor Dram attributed to the Inquisitor's mindset. Stopping at the great concave windows, Amara Kith regarded the planet Vespor with passing interest.

It was not the next step on their journey, not immediately, though its size dominated and demanded notice in the firmament. Vespor's polluted atmosphere wreathed the surface of the world in grey shadows and violet bruises. Towering hives, where sycophant lords and ladies of the Huldah subsector resided, dotted the bleak landscape as infesting sores. Antenna and satellite dishes jutting out from every angle on the hives, making each and its resident forges look akin to a madman's failed attempt at order.

Ursula recited the Prayer of Safety against the God-Emperor's foes. "Which immoral faction won?"

"Not the Harlequins. The Thousand Sons took something from the earth with them." Turning back to the table, Amara sifted through data-slates concerning colony 1034. "Inquisitor Gren of the Ordo Xenos is pursuing an on-going investigation into what the lost relic's origin is. I believe it ties into the workings of Saint Gilles, Isfarena and most recently, Krenzar. Any undertaking where the Thousand Sons are present should be treated with the utmost gravity."

"Plots within plots, convoluted stories and trails leading to nowhere," Ursula spoke the oft-quoted saying favoured by Inquisitor Amara Kith.

Downing the last of his tea, Dram shifted in his seat. His calf muscle ached. "All I know is this evidence was taken from two subsectors with years between one operation and the next."

"Chaos never sleeps," Ursula said. "It waits. Only with the Emperor's guiding light and divine intuition are we able to combat the darkness. We will not allow this plot to manifest."

"If that's the case, shouldn't we try uncovering the next link? Return to Isfarena; see how the evidence pulled from the crypts matches against Krenzar's activity? Do you even have a hint of what their master plan might be?" Dram directed the last question to the Inquisitor.

Amara Kith shook her head. "I will find the source. What is known is the Dark Mother has an active cult within the Syntyche sector. A very strong following which could be based in most, if not all, the systems. There's a high chance it's tied into the excavation of colony 1034 and the Thousand Sons. In turn, whoever this Dark Mother is has ties to the Traitor Astartes. Once we find the Dark Mother, the trail will lead further back to the originating source. From there it is simply finding out what was excavated at colony 1034 and why."

"Why not talk to the Eldar who're so intent on stopping them?" Dram leaned back on the couch.

Sister Ursula gasped at the suggestion. "We of the Emperor's work do not consort with xenos."

"The Harlequin talk only when they wish to," Amara answered coolly. "If they want to share what they know, they'll come."

Ursula's lips twisted into a scowl. "Consorting with alien spawn and their lies only weakens us in our cause. I would not trust the words of a xenos, Milady Kith. You would be better to not consider the thought of talking with witches."

Amara Kith's gaze moved beyond Vespor's swollen bulk. A small moon orbited the hive world. Anaike, the sole retrograde moon circling Vespor, shimmered in the distant light from the system's sun. Its pearl-grey surface was anathema to Vespor's uncleanliness; as rogue as the inmates housed on its surface. Amara doubted the enigmatic Harlequins had visited the prison moon or the overbearing planet it was chained to spin next to.

"Why are we going to Anaike? Are you expecting the Dark Mother's cult to have a following where all the inmates will revolt?"

"If that should happen, I welcome to chance to bring the purity of flames to those corrupt." The Sister of Battle reverently touched her rosary.

"We're at Anaike for one reason before moving on to Vespor." She smiled at Dram and Ursula. "I need a replacement for Fray."

"Fray was not contracted through the penal system." Ursula muttered.

"No," Amara agreed. "As I recall we found him about to run from the PDF because of his illegal cargo and half drunk. It was his good fortune we happened to meet. In any case, prison inmates have skills which the Inquisition can readily employ."

Uncomfortable with the thought of scum entering the Inquisitor's coterie, Ursula darkly muttered, "They are honest in their duplicity, Milady Kith. The moon itself revolves against the natural spin of the others. I do not like it."

"Now you're speaking like the soothsayers you hate. You insisted we find a pilot, Sister Ursula." Caught in the Inquisitor's word game, the Sister of Battle refrained from replying. Amara Kith looked at them. "I am going to Anaike. You two will stay here and continue to piece together the evidence. I require the Vespor Arbites files to be pulled for any suspicions of cult activity."

"One of us should accompany you, milady. It would be improper for-"

"Do as I say, Sister Ursula, not as I do." Her tone was reproachful. The Emperor's handmaiden returned to the data-slates. Dram helped himself to another cup of stimm tea, waiting until the Inquisitor left before starting a conversation with the battle maiden.

"Are you in the mood for a joke?" Ursula's deadpan expression failed to faze Dram as he launched into the story. "A Guardsman, an Arbites, and a Tech-Priest are about to be executed for heresy."

* * *

Kel fought for her life. Scuffling with Jaala on the hard grit of the prison courtyard, Kel's palms were shredded and raw. The blood dripping on the dry earth hadn't been taken by Jaala's blade; the half-breed's own actions had injured her. It was a dark wonder the shiv was still dry with the close proximity between combatants. Twisting under Jaala's arm, Kel scrambled to get away. Lithe for a human, Jaala darted after her intended victim with a viper's grace. Reaching the edge of the circle feet lashed out, kicking and pushing Kelvenia back. Driven toward to the insane prisoner, Kel hunched her body. Her hands throbbed in pain bunching them into fists.

The guards allowed the brawl while the convicts cheered. From their dreary outposts the sentries placed bets; on first blood, the initial lost limb, the expected fatality. In the prison square, criminals pressed shoulder to shoulder for the best vantage point. Encircling the combatants, the horde of men and women were heady with violence. They hollered like fiends, relishing the bloody entertainment. Many gambled on Jaala's assured win. Few risked their meagre possessions on the half-breed.

Jaala's blade would have caught Kel across her right arm... if the other convict hadn't been pushed. Through spite or the ever-shifting mass, the woman was pushed between the fighters. She caught Jaala's shiv across her throat. Choking on her own blood, the unknown prisoner went down under the feet of the others. People moved back at the misfortune. In the guard tower, money switched hands.

"Cowardly bitch!" screeched Jaala, rushing Kel in a frenzy. Slashing low, the movement turned into a high sweep, each time coming within centimetres of cutting Kel yet never landing. Kel would have refuted the insult if she had breath to spare. As it stood, she was thinking she should have prayed for divine luck. The cursed sort surely was not answering.

Kel dropped to one knee, heightened senses taking in the flurry of strikes from Jaala. Whistling through the air, the shiv passed over Kel's head. In that moment Jaala was open. Kel struck out with her right fist, connecting with Jaala's solar plexus. Following up with a weaker left jab to the woman's right knee, Kel threw herself sideways to avoid Jaala's retaliation. Jeers broke out at the spineless move. Fickle chance, absent from the fight, now presented itself.

Jaala slipped on the loose earth. Tilting like a drunk to the left, she instinctively raised her arm to cushion the blow. Her shiv flew from her hand as she crashed to the ground. Rebounding off the crowd's scuffling feet, the jagged blade found its way back to its mistress. Embedded deeply into Jaala's left eye, a raw, primal scream tore from her throat. Her whole body shuddered. Muscles seized, legs spasmodically twitched and still that awful, animalistic sound continued without surrender.

Stupefied by the turn of events, Kelvenia merely grinned, watching Jaala thrash. Some of the prisoners, their money lost, closed in on the half-breed. The resounding crack of a shotgun shell banged through the air, scattering them. Anaike's prison warden, clutching the indispensable weapon in his hands, descended into the prison courtyard. Dressed in a greatcoat of black wool, the warden was an imposing figure. Guards flanked him, each armed with power mauls and riot shields. They used the tools of their trade indiscriminately on convicts too slow to move from their path.

"Disperse," the burly man ordered. His voice was the iron rumble of authority, backed by an unbending will that would enforce every order issued. The convicts slunk away. His face a pox-marked canvas, the warden glared at Kel. "Prisoner seven-thirty-twelve, you will come with us."

"Like I have a choice," Kel replied. A swift blow from the warden's shotgun to her stomach made the half-breed fall. Retching on the stones, Kel's eyes watered.

"Your humour isn't tolerated. You're to be questioned."

Ordering the guards to bring Kelvenia into the complex, the warden turned to Jaala. The infirmary could see to the woman's traumatic injury, yet the warden was prudent. Why waste fresh bandages and antiseptic on an unworthy life? Many were in Anaike due to crimes against the Imperium and its citizens. None would notice the filth scrapped from humanity. A bullet to the head ended Jaala's misery.

Kel heard the single rapport of the shotgun as she was dragged down the concrete hall. Despite herself she flinched, yet glad she no longer had to deal with Jaala. Striding alongside the bruised prisoner, the warden stared at Kel with flint-like eyes. He questioned little, was even less curious to the reasons behind his orders, though this case was an exception.

"I pray on your filthy soul, prisoner seven-thirty-twelve, that you don't heed my advice. Perhaps the individual who's ordered your questioning will not tolerate your humour and kill you. Their ilk is the sort. I would allow them without interfering."

"Who would that be?" Kel's question was met with a cuff from one of the guards.

"None other than the Holy Inquisition itself."

A wave of nausea swept upward from her bruised stomach. Her paltry lunch spattered the floor, the guards dragging her feet through the liquid contents. No, Kelvenia realised. No, if she was going to meet her judge, jury and executioner, better she walk under her own power. She would enjoy what freedom she still held until the noose wrapped around her neck. She could imagine how _he _would hear the news and rejoice. That brought anger, enough for Kel to find her footing to match the strides of her escort.

Coming to the interrogation chamber, Kel was greeted by austere walls. Psalms written in white chalk covered the walls. The harsh canticles hemmed her in, just as the lack of windows kept out any true light. Only a single lumen, emitting its low buzz overhead, cast its unforgiving light on Kelvenia and the other occupant in the room. She was momentarily blinded. Pushed into the steel chair, Kel blinked quickly to bring the other person into focus. Sitting at the wide metal table in a simple chair, the woman wore an unassuming grey robe. Her white gloved hands rested on top of a folder. Hovering at shoulder level a servo-skull held a data-slate.

"Prisoner seven-thirty-twelve, Inquisitor. Emperor protects." Clicking his heels smartly, the warden saluted and left.

Fear left Kel's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Thank Isha she had nothing left to purge from her stomach. The last thing Kel wanted was to lose any remaining dignity. When the silence stretched out, the woman's green eyes judging her too long, Kel found her voice. "You're the Inquisitor?"

"Inquisitor Amara Kith of the Ordo Malleus." She took the proffered data-slate from the servo-skull. "Let us begin."

"Am I on trial here?"

"People in Anaike don't get trials. They get taken outside and have a lasbolt put through their head. Consider this an interview for a potential job, Kelvenia. You have an extensive list on what you're capable of flying. Aircraft for atmospheric and planetary deployment, as well as subsystem travelling. The Imperial Lightning, Avenger, Valkyrie. Even the Mark IX Inleron." Amara consulted the data-slate. "Dare I ask how you learned to pilot these crafts?"

"I-I have a lot of time on my hands."

"A great deal of time," the agent of the God-Emperor agreed. "The limited medicae test placed your physical age at just under a century. You certainly don't look it. The years must have been kind."

Kelvenia forced herself to laugh. "I'm lucky to have the proper genes."

"Eldar, am I right?"

Petrified, Kel's pupils dilated. Her mouth gaped. "H-how did you know?"

Amara gestured to the folder. "Everything you ever said since coming to Anaike has been faithfully transcribed. You mention your heritage with superiority several times, even if the chief medical officer wrote it off as delusions of grandeur." She leaned forward. "How did you learn to fly?"

Kel babbled when she was nervous. Now she blathered like an idiot, unable to stop the words. "I travel a lot so I have to keep busy or get bored. Some holo businesses allow training simulators. Find the right people who have the exact programs, you know? As long as you have the money to cover the rental fee, everyone ends up a winner. I used my skills to get a license. I made system runs and brought travellers to their destinations."

Pride traded out fear. The sense of accomplishment for having so little yet coming so far was obvious. Amara Kith nodded. Opening the folder, the Inquisitor selected a sheaf of papers. "I thought as much. Which makes me speculate how a simple-minded pilot like you-"

"Hey, being a pilot doesn't mean I'm stupid. There's the mathematics involved-"

"-is in here after found pillaging a museum. You were captured by Arbites outside the Gerlden Museum of Manuscripts. Why would a pilot be reading old books written in languages centuries old and tongues long since dead?" The half-breed said nothing. Amara Kith continued. "Your crimes continue. Though this unruly heist, others were soon discovered bearing your DNA. Lost artefacts from reclusiums, librariums missing data-slates, even the coffers of the Ecclesiarchy plundered. I admit," the Inquisitor chuckled, twining a lock of blonde hair between her fingers. "That takes daring to steal from the church."

Kel's anger burst out in a surging torrent. "Those crimes weren't done by me! How the hell do you know about those? I have rights to see that data-slate, I damn well do!" She slammed her fists on the table and rose, wincing from the pain. Her shouting brought a guard into the room, shock maul raised.

"You're not needed," the Inquisitor ordered the guard. With a bow he left.

Kel sat back down, the angry glow in her eyes remaining. "I was set up. I was damn well set up from the beginning."

"Yes, strange someone like you is intelligent enough to commit these crimes until one goes horribly wrong. Not even a case of poor planning as just bad luck. You shouldn't have been caught unless the true mastermind, afraid of capture, used you as an expendable asset to escape. Does this ring true, Kelvenia?"

Her sullen look turned into something else. "I can't say anything."

"You can't or you won't? There's a large different between the two." Irritated with the servo-skull hovering too close, Amara Kith dismissed it. Clicking something in binary, the automaton began circling the chamber.

"I can't." Kel's anger sluiced away. Her brown eyes brimmed again with fear, no longer for the Inquisitor but for something conceivably worse. Far, far worse than what the Inquisition could ever do.

Amara Kith steepled her fingers, knowing she had struck a nerve. "I think you can. You aren't elegant enough to hide a trail like this only to have it suddenly revealed. Who are you hiding?"

"No, I can't breathe a word." Kel furtively looked around the hymn-inscribed room. Minuscule shadows loomed. The lumen's drone sounded like a murmured death threat. Even the guards outside the door became suspect. Cautiously, Kel leaned across the table. "Not unless you promise to protect me."

"From who?" Keeping her face carefully neutral, Amara surreptitiously made a hand signal. Quietly the servo-skull began to record their conversation.

"Not until you promise. Swear that you can keep me safe from... him. From all of them. They're everywhere, except in here. But sometimes," Kel rubbed her nose, "I wonder if he knows where I am. Just to make sure I don't say a word of what happened."

Kith made the sign of the holy aquila. She declared, "I swear by the God-Emperor, your security is assured. Who is 'he', Kelvenia?"

"Belail." The name was whispered, as though speaking it too loudly would invoke the holder's wrath. Kel nervously tapped her feet together. "He's one of them. Those Astartes you hear about as nightmares, the ones who turned from the Imperium. He's as old as the Heresy if he wasn't lying. After what I've been through with him it's a miracle I have all my limbs. He's the one who put me in here, and if I get out I want to kill him." Her bitterness returned. "I know killing marines is difficult, but I've thought of ways it can be done."

The half-breed's ire convinced Amara of her sincerity. This is what she wanted to see. What she wanted to hear. From Isfarena to Krenzar, now to Anaike, the steps rose to lead Amara Kith along the spiralling path of her sacred undertaking. Reaching into the folds of her cloak, Amara proffered a holocube. One of the many from the chest Saeger bequeathed her, the information contained had been memorized and recited countless times. Activating its contents, she selected a specific image and let Kel see it.

"Do you remember this character?" An imposing figure rose up from the holocube. The small pict's edges were tarnished by static, but the integrity was conserved. Supreme arrogance and power masked the collector of knowledge behind his horned helm. Kelvenia recoiled from a memory made physical.

"It was twenty years ago on Maharra. There were others besides him. This guy," Kel tapped the image of Ahriman. "I remember him. He rummaged through my head without any thought for privacy." She keened slightly, holding her nose as if expecting it to bleed. "But the others... Belail was terrified of one. Or in awe. I can't remember it all, but Belail was definitely the bottom feeder in the group."

"Belail of the Thousand Sons." Letting the name roll over her tongue and seep into her mind, the Inquisitor put away the holocube. A name, a precious thing in times where records of the traitor Legions were heavily guarded or no longer existed. For Kelvenia to come into contact with more than one ancient Astartes, Amara Kith knew an opportunity when it appeared. Saeger's lecturing rewarded those who remembered what he imparted.

"If you're going to execute me, just take me out behind the shed and put that lasbolt between my eyes now. I'm dead either way." With or without the Inquisitor's help, Kelvenia knew she was running on days, maybe hours, until her demise. Maybe it would have been swifter to have Jaala bury the knife in her chest.

Folding her arms, Amara Kith reclined in her chair. "What I showed you could result in your immediate execution. The common person is not trusted with such knowledge, though I hold faith in you. With what you have experienced, I believe you appreciate the weight of this moment. Aid the Inquisition and you'll be released from Anaike."

Kel knew the deal was too good. "Promise you'll protect me?"

Amara smiled benignly. "In the service of the Inquisition, I will protect you and your interests as though they were my own. Tell me everything about Belail and what you've been through. I have a suspicion he's the crux on which many things pivot."

Kelvenia agreed. Pacts with the Inquisition were like making pacts with devils. Having made a pact with a particular one, Kelvenia would do what was required until her macabre dream became reality. In a matter of hours Anaike was a retreating sphere circling Vespor, the shuttle carrying Kel away a gilded chariot. Her fate tied to the Inquisitor's, Kel lowered her head to whisper thanks to Isha. Out of the prison fatigues and dressed in drab olive coveralls, wearing her battered flight jacket, Kel whistled appreciatively when she caught sight of the Inquisitor's vessel.

"Is that a Dauntless-class light cruiser?" Cutting through the void with the sleek grace of a predator, the _Iridescent Blade _beckoned the half-breed with its siren's song. Kel thought being a personal pilot and having authorization to fly what she requested as the icing on a very fine day. Not since a brief stint of corsair work had she been this giddy.

"Yes," Amara responded, not looking up from her data-slate. She sat opposite the half-breed, saying little after the interrogation room.

"I'm allowed to see anything I want inside?"

"You will have access to most areas aboard the vessel."

Sweeping under the prow of the stately vessel, the shuttle docked inside one of the cruiser's many bays. Taking her canvas bag, Kelvenia descended the ramp to meet the others in the Inquisitor's circle. Amara beckoned the new pilot to hurry. Kel plastered a good-natured smile on her lips. Amara Kith strode across the flight deck, nodding at two waiting individuals. One, a man dressed in Guard combat fatigues, saluted the Inquisitor while the other, clothed in black and white robes, inclined her head.

"Is this the new pilot?" the man asked, regarding Kel.

Amara Kith began introductions with no finesse. "Her name is Kelvenia. She'll become as much an asset to our team as Fray once was. Get to know each other and build trust. You will all be working together from this moment on."

"Dram," the burly man offered his hand. Kel shook it, smiling, liking the man instantly. When she leaned over to clasp the woman's hand, the other recoiled. Kel, seeing the Adepta Sororitas symbol, blanched.

"Mutant," the flung slur dripped with poison. "Milady, why did you choose this from the prison? Surely there was another more worthy to receive the Emperor's grace."

"Leave it alone, Ursula," Dram interjected before Amara spoke. "The fresh face's been here less than five minutes."

"You should not lax your guard," came the retort. "She's a filthy mutant. Look at her features, Dram."

"I see a pilot whose eyes might be a little wide set."

"I'm not a mutant." Kel dropped her canvas bag, defiant. She placed her hands on her hips. Amara Kith promised security from all potential dangers, real or imagined. Now it was time to put her pledge to the test. "Let's clear the air before anything else happens. I'm not a mutant, twist, or scummy bootlicker. I'm none of those. I'm half Eldar."

Ursula swore profoundly. Deckhands halted their work to watch the battle maiden call down the names of all the saints. Exaggerated curses laced within pious words rang across the grille floors. "This won't be tolerated. There is no room in the Emperor's host for mixed blood! Alloys are weak, only the pure are strong."

Vexation took the words from Ursula. If her weapons hadn't been in the armoury, something terrible would have happened. Dram positioned himself between Ursula and Kel, arms raised, body tense. A fleeting glance from the former Guardsman caught Kith's retreating back. Ursula, instead of raising her hands against the half-breed, turned and departed. The Inquisitor would know the new pilot was unwelcomed.

"I have that effect on most people," the half-breed replied. "Is she going to try killing me in the night?"

Rubbing the back of his head, Dram laughed. "Doubtful, but it's best to lock your berth door tonight, Squints."

"What about you?" Engines test-fired further down the hanger bay; servitors rolled past, carrying heavy equipment in mechanical arms. Kel wondered if she had made one of the biggest mistakes by working for the Inquisition. Some things were not worth risking her life for. The concept of freedom hinges on the individual, she remembered Belail once remarking.

"We're still talking, aren't we?"

"Good enough." Picking up her bag, Kel regarded Dram before asking, "Why 'Squints'?"

* * *

Vespor was one of the greatest planets in the entire Syntyche sector. Second only to Hyeinsa, Vespor's nobles once dreamed of dominating the sector until the ascension of the new Lord Inquisitor. Yet the dream lived on in the secret hearts of many, least of all in the subsector governor's palace, if not in the governor himself. Established in Pytren Hive, the subsector palace was a piercing construct of crystal and black marble. Rising up in defiance from the putrid collection of Pytren Hive, its presence served as a reminder to who ruled the masses and kept them safe. Secure against the mutant, the alien, the heretic, and most importantly from themselves. Subsector Governor Stym Atomy was not a cruel or wanton man; he controlled the Huldah subsector effectively, tithes were paid, ships constructed for Battlefleet Syntyche, souls given to the Black Ships and able bodies to the Imperial Guard.

Adjoining to his magnificent palace, the relic house was Atomy's only haven.

He spent hours inside the platinum vaults studying his collected treasures, much to his wife's chagrin. Time could slip away so easily from him in the relic house. It was his pastime to procure fine and exotic trinkets. His power as subsector governor allowed much to go unwritten in the financial ledgers. Gifts bequeathed as tribute, others from the nobility to ease the slights done at court. On plinths and inside stasis casks, the governor admired his material wealth. A man of his importance deserved at least one harmless dalliance. Tonight restlessness found the governor and, slipping from his bedchamber and Sabine, Atomy decided a midnight vigil to the relic house was in order. The warm floor beneath his feet comforted the man as he trod up and down the halls. Inspecting jewels taken from plundered xenos craft, tapestries depicting ancient origin myths, carved statues of long-dead heroes; each work of art wonderfully silent. They kept their unknown stories as the light from Atomy's lantern illuminated them briefly. A thick hush permeated the air, comfortable and familiar to the governor.

The past month had been a nightmare. Atomy was certain his insomnia stemmed from the endless stress his station afforded him. His latest acquisition waited for him on his desk. Having forgotten about the gift until now, Atomy felt like a child on a high holy day.

His thin frame dwarfed by his opulent chair, Atomy chortled as he picked up the small lockbox. Found within the caverns of a mining facility, the miniature chest's outward design was peculiar and unto itself unique. Crafted from a whitish material veined with faint traces of green, it felt warm when Atomy held it. The governor thought he detected a faint tremor emanating from the reliquary, similar to the beating of a heart. Shaking aside the thought, Atomy's fingers traced the curves and followed the whorls over its foreign surface. Surely whoever crafted this must have spent weeks coaxing the substance into this design.

_Its design is older than you would know to count time._

The voice could have risen from his sleep-deprived brain. Atomy raised his head and peered into the shadows. "Hello?" Shrugging when no response came, Atomy sensibly placed the culprit as his overactive mind. Dark-eyed, the governor continued to caress the lockbox when a quiet _snap_ echoed. A section of the box folded away to reveal a velvet lined interior. Curiosity stayed the cautionary voice; Stym Atomy peered in. His fingers reached in to lift out a thin arc of delicately carved metal. An image flashed in his mind to the origins of what he held.

"A diadem," the governor murmured. "This is part of a crown?"

_Mere beings of flesh and blood would do best to not touch what is not theirs._

Atomy nodded absently at the voice, too entranced with what he held to pay attention. In the governor's hand, the metal pulsed in cadence to his heartbeat. Surely this treasure had to be alive. As the unknown alloy coiled and stretched in the governor's hand, its surface colour changed, the shifting hues showing images. Amazed, Governor Atomy brought it closer. Creation and destruction boiled side by side before a whirlpool of stars. A conflagration of scarlet; phantasmal screams of star flung empires across time reverberated in the treasure house. Atomy saw striding figures, behemoths that made Titans seem as toys, glide across the dark starscape. Minds given physical flesh, these beings created worlds only for their destruction when they became theatres of war. Through it all the diadem was present, bestowing power to those who held it, shackling those who birthed it.

This portion of the diadem was part of something greater, of that Atomy was certain. In the governor's haven, shadows twisted from the walls and rose from the floor. The lantern's light grew brighter. Or did the radiance spring from the treasure he held? Atomy decided he did not care either way, too captivated by the transmuting metal and its visions. An inchoate voice curled inside Atomy's mind. It asked for protection until someone worthier came to claim it.

"Of course," the governor spoke through gritted teeth. One of his molars cracked, blood and spittle dripping down his lips. "All you need to do is ask."

Clenching his most valued treasure in bloodless hands, Governor Atomy's lips pealed back in a joyous smile. He laughed quietly as unearthly light shone from the arched windows of the relic house, spilling across the palace and Pytren Hive. Something rippled in the still night air, flowing on the currents of half-formed dreams. The future was coming to Vespor, and it would not be kind.


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**023.M42**

**Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

Hurtling from the narrow vortex, a skull-masked shade of jet black and ivory bone nimbly skipped over the cobblestones before halting. Unable to match the Harlequin's grace, the human tumbled after him. Clad in silver trimmed black carapace, his unsteady feet found solid ground and with that, the man vomited. The gateway closed, leaving a hazy smear in the air until it too dissipated. Deposited on Vespor the wanderers looked to their surroundings. Night had fallen on Pytren Hive, and with it, an ominous presence. They stood in a narrow alleyway, the sloping street choked with refuse and puddles of foul water. Wisps of fog pooled and curled in the lowest sections of the lane.

Shouldering his heavy weapon, Margorach turned to the Ordo Xenos Inquisitor. "Congratulations for holding your meal until you were outside. Some of you have enough sense not to pollute the Webway. Perhaps your race has manners yet." Speaking fluent Low Gothic, Margorach's accent made it difficult for Gren to understand his words.

Gren smiled half-heartedly and wiped his lips. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought it was risky travelling the Webway to a potentially compromised planet."

"Sometimes there are no other options. Let's see how close we are to our destination."

Margorach merged into the dense shadows as he crept along the alleyway. The Eldar peered around the fog-shrouded corner, his shuriken cannon ready. Gren readied his hellgun, standing next to the Death Jester. The Inquisitor was on edge and had every right to be. Travelling by obscure means to a planet being engulfed in a Warp storm meant grave risks. Gren did not want to engage in a protracted firefight with any enemy. He hoped Margorach was of a similar mind. To carry out his mission Gren had been forced to take additional precautions entering Vespor. Even then, he went willingly only because of what lay at stake.

The subsector governor's palace dominated Pytren Hive. Connected by a colossal suspension bridge, the citadel's lower levels appeared untouched. The upper spires, an amalgamation of guild houses and manses, were wreathed in clouds different to the pollution coiling around the rest of the hive city. Unnatural lights flickered in the mist. Substantial shapes were hinted at, their true size remaining cloaked. The moons illuminated all of Pytren Hive, their light seeming to warp everything it touched.

Fortified by the weapon in his grip, Margorach checked the flip-belt's gravitational field. Readied, the Death Jester stepped away from the safety of the alleyway and out on the open causeway. It was empty. As far as his sharp eyes saw, the esplanade was deserted. Every reflex honed to an unearthly degree, Margorach passed from twilit shadows to the weak pools of light cast by street lumens. His image burst into a distorting whirl of chromatic crystals with the quick movement, sickening Gren just to follow the Harlequin's passage.

"What we search for is there," the Death Jester said. "If you cannot feel its suffocating weight, consider yourself blessed." An elegant finger pointed at the blasted, damning citadel. From the crystal and black marble the contamination seeped into the world. Vapour spilled from the palace's gaping portcullis, the spawning ground of daemons.

Margorach had felt the corruption from the Webway, a persistently growing tumour. So close to the font on Vespor, it hit him like a sledgehammer to the stomach. He sensed the psychic disruption to the physical plane as an undertow threatening to draw him down. Only by the Shadowseer's runes was Margorach able to resist its sinister pull. Even then, the Death Jester knew the shield would fail over time without reinforcement. Gren, having no psychic potential, remained unaffected. Margorach wondered how long until the mon-keigh came under the Warp's taint. He doubted the runes Shadowseer Carrenad bequeathed to Gren would protect the human the closer they came to Pytren Hive.

"Where is everyone?" asked Gren. He kept pace with Margorach, trusting the Harlequin to know the way. It was difficult to see in the thickening fog. "I thought with the time shifts supposedly caused by the artefact, there would be people caught in its-"

Gren stopped talking. Margorach spun about when the human went silent, shuriken cannon raised against a potential threat. Gren's halt was not because of a threat but a gruesome discovery. Standing before a human frozen in place, Gren examined the unfortunate man. An Imperial citizen, the man was fixed in a pose suggesting his movements had been halted mid-motion. In his eyes Gren made out minuscule movements. A gust of wind came up; sending a wave of fog billowing over the man, and when the mist lifted the space was unoccupied.

Further up the promenade, Gren saw others trapped in a similar manner. People dressed in crushed velvet and satin finery looked as if they had been cast from wax. In the moons' watery light, it held a macabre appeal as the effluvium moved them about. Frozen forever in poise but not in place, Gren had his answer. Caught in the time distortion, Pytren Hive's citizens stood unmoving in pockets of time. There was no sound. Anything above a moderate voice was rendered mute by the haze, and the strange vapour swallowed the Inquisitor and Harlequin's footsteps.

"Time preserves them," Margorach whispered. They warily advanced, the barrel of the Death Jester's cannon sweeping through the fog. Gren reached out to touch one of the people. Frustrated, Margorach struck his hand away. "It is wiser not to touch them, Inquisitor, unless you contract what they have. Curiosity kills."

"The Warp's influence is worse than I thought. I need to find an astropath, a chancery... anything to get a message off-world."

Vespor's state was degenerating faster than Gren thought, with the implications to the subsector's security too dire to comprehend. Thoughts of a second _exterminatus _in the sectorplagued his mind. Centering his attention on the gathering hunters shifting in the mist, Margorach's finger hovered over the shuriken cannon's trigger. Wraith-like beings observed their movements through the haze, sharks coming for the taste of warm, fresh blood. Sparks of eldritch light announced their presence. The lesser daemons never came close. Kept at bay by the Shadowseer's runes, they swam in the fog's currents. Margorach did not engage them in combat, but he was ready. Young by the Rillietann standards, the Death Jester's urge for battle was only tempered by the experience gained from previous combat. Even with the understanding to the Warp's inhabitants, he never relaxed his guard.

Gren's legs buckled. Even before he hit the ground, something grabbed the man around the waist and dragged him into the fog. The Inquisitor's strangled cry was Margorach's only warning. Lithely twisting aside, his flip-belt rolling the action into a single continuous movement, the Death Jester avoided the sweeping claws. Margorach flipped backwards, shuriken cannon aimed even before his feet touched the ground. A single shot spat from the barrel. Scoring a direct hit, the mutated claws were eaten by the virulent acid.

Something _screamed. _Chasing the noise to its source, the Harlequin barely discerned Gren's outline in the congealing mist. The Inquisitor's hellgun lay uselessly on the ground. Desperately attacking the Warp spawn with a combat knife, Gren was unable to score a mark on its armour-like skin. His afterimage a blur of crystal shards, the Death Jester hurtled forward. His scythe descended; grotesque energies were released as the blade cleaved the spawn's limb. Gren dropped the short distance to the ground, scrabbling for his hellgun. Swinging the barrel up against the fiend, Gren saw the Death Jester finish the beast. A round cracked through the hard carapace of the twisted being. Bulging growths not related to its daemonic physiology rippled under the spawn's shell.

In a welter of black blood and visceral ooze, the monstrosity exploded. What remained of it vanished into the fog. The sound of slavering maws and bones being crunched were heard. Clutching his weapon in shaking hands, Gren fought to control his heart rate as sweat sheened his face. The Shadowseer's runes hadn't protected him against the attack. The realisation struck him silent.

"Keep close," the Death Jester ordered before moving on.

Attempting to understand the short-lived battle was futile. Gren stopped when thoughts of mortality began to circle round themselves. Finding comfort in logic and strategy, the Xenos Inquisitor thought how to send a message off-world. He needed an astropathic chancery. Precious time would be lost searching for one in Pytren Hive without a detailed map. His greatest chance, and greatest danger, was finding the governor's chancery in the palace. If there was any chance of finding a working communications array the palace was the best option. Protected by hexagrammic wards capable of repelling such daemonic manifestations, the subsector governor's astropath could still be alive and sane.

Margorach watched the human walk. Barely maintaining his self-control, Gren sought a way to remain in charge. Loping behind him the Eldar asked, "Do you have a specific destination in mind?"

"I need to find the astropathic chancery. After that is done, then we can search the rest of the palace level by level for the relic." Coming to the colossal bridge, Gren did not hesitate. He strode along it with confidence in his fragile plan.

"The Vaenosis," Margorach said. "Call it by its rightful name. And let us be swift, my troupe brethren will need us soon. They cannot hope to hold the barricade for long. I do not want to linger on this damned world longer than needed."

"Do you believe this world is beyond saving, Margorach? That the humans here, their very souls, are not worth fighting for? You saw worth in saving my life." Gren spoke to keep the oppressing silence at bay. Frivolous banter was better than the unnerving absence of sound.

"Fate is arduous, Gren. We must face what we run from at some point in our lives." The vertical cables of the bridge creaked ominously in the leaden wind. Margorach tensed, sensing the wraiths accumulating in numbers.

"What are you running from?"

A heavy sigh issued from the Death Jester. "You ask too many questions and at the most inopportune times."

"That's what my employ calls me to do." Gren tried to smile. "I thought those among the Harlequin gave up their Craftworld for greater freedom."

Margorach gave an undignified snort. "You still have much to learn. Each has their reasons for coming to the Rillietann. I escaped my blood kin."

A rodent-like thing scurried whip-quick over Gren's foot. He jumped back with his hellgun raised, finding nothing in the mist. "What caused the family divide?" he asked shakily.

Not for the first time, Margorach questioned why he had freed Gren from the Dark City. He fixed Gren with the red lenses of his skull mask. "I left behind heart-sworn when I should have stayed, least of all the newborn."

"You left your wife and a child? I thought the Eldar held some pride." The Inquisitor muttered the last under his breath. The Harlequin still heard it.

Margorach halted. Rounding on Gren in a shattering burst of crystal shards, the Eldar raised a fist in controlled anger. "I made a devil's pact to my blood kin, mon-keigh, to protect the only things I ever cared for! But what does a human know? You cannot grasp the emotions an Eldar feels. What might be an old memory to you still burns bright in my mind when I recall it, and the wound felt as keenly when it was first cut!"

"I can understand making a contract with a devil all too well, Margorach. It's you who assumes humans to be the same."

"I doubt the sincerity of your words, Gren," said Margorach.

"Your wife-"

"Sinead. She had a name. You humans are keen on names, giving one to everything you encounter. Remember hers."

Gren raised his hands to mitigate Margorach's anger. "Sinead. Do you know where she is now or what happened to your child?"

The Death Jester's stance changed. Instead of striking the Inquisitor, Margorach stalked away, forcing Gren to hurry or be left behind. Crossing the great suspension bridge in tense silence, the fog roiling about them, the duo reached the palace doors. Gren looked above where the ornamental carved lintel described Saint Gilles on his feast day, casting daemons into everlasting fire as the pious looked on. He breathed a prayer to the saint, knowing it was more from habit than true faith.

It seemed to Gren that the saint's marble eyes mocked them as they entered into the palace's halls. Saint Gilles' powers would not reach them within the governor's abode.

* * *

**023.M42**

**Hyeinsa, Syntychia subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

"Who can stand?" he asked the question to the Tarot. "When the whirlwind of fury comes from the Throne of the God-Emperor, who can stand? When Chaos claps its broad wings over the battlefield, and sails rejoicing in the flood of death, who can stand? When souls are torn to everlasting fire, and fiends rejoice upon the slain," Saeger bowed his head over the simple altar. "Who can stand? Who has caused this? Who can answer at the throne of the God-Emperor?"

Gilt edged holographic wafers seemingly mocked him. Under lambent candlelight, they refused to illuminate the questions posed to them. On the cloth before Saeger was the first card, the Magus. Beside it and intrinsically linked to the first, the Xenos. While the card was drawn inversed, its image shifted between a Craftworld to a checker-caped figure astride a broken statue. Its dubious ruling vexed him. The final card, having slid from the Lord Inquisitor's hands while the deck had been shuffled, settled over the previous two. Letting it remain where it fell, Saeger interpreted it as the final element in his reading. The sigil of the Ordo Xenos.

Saeger took solace in his chapel house within the Hyeinsa Inquisitor Palace. Wearing a simple red habit trimmed in black, the man was just as imposing out of his armour. He had come from the baptisterium purified for the task of invoking the Emperor's will through the Tarot. White hair slick from sacred oils and flesh rubbed in blessed unguents, Saeger focused his mind. Concentration to understanding the manifested will of the Lord of Mankind took time. Braziers washed the room in warm light while incense smoke coiled up to the mosaic ceiling. Childish laughter broke Saeger's meditative reflection and he turned to the source. Confined to the sunken basin of black granite, warded manacles chaining slender wrists, Selina looked at her lord and master with corpse eyes.

"Ask Tasha and you will know." She smiled lewdly, the seer joined to a blasphemous power in the circle. "Just raise the question and you will be given your answer. Answers are given to the strong of heart and the ever faithful."

"Watch your tongue, insipid witch." Saeger stood at the edge of the consecrated pit. "When will Ahriman strike next? You will supply the answers I need."

"Not when, Saeger," her giggle of innocence changed to a guttural growl. Selina, what small part of her remained, hid when Tasha spoke. "Where. Amend your questions to have the answers you seek, Saeger, for the future changes. Tasha knows this, oh and how Chaos knows this to and changes its schemes to fit."

Growling in frustration, the Lord Inquisitor slammed a fist into the cool marble floor. He felt the skin across his knuckles tear open, hot blood dripping on the smooth stone. "Where will the arch-heretic Ahriman appear next? By what means will he assail the Syntyche sector? The Imperium?"

The temperature plummeted in the chapel. Selina stared beyond Saeger. A force wrenched the girl to her feet as her head snapped back. Flesh smoked against the warded manacles as she slowly began to rise. "Gods masked in mortal flesh dance. Their assemblage bequeathed the Vaenosis to one, only ever one!" Blood dribbled from Selina's nose as her voice shrilled on. "The sorcerer seeks it; you search for it; the dancing troupe hunts!"

"Continue!" Saeger leaned closer, close enough to risk breaking the warding circle. Selina's shackles stopped her ascent as the witching sight overpowered her. Her black hair whipped snake-like in an unseen and unfelt wind.

"Vespor! The paths align at the decomposing center! Leave it to the aether, we beg you not to seek this!"

Tasha fled. Dropping with a crack to the frost-covered floor the child lay unconscious. Blood pooled from her nose while smoke rose from burnt flesh at her wrists. Blood, sweat, incense, the candle wax – the smells overlapped to create a pungent odour that reminded Saeger of the Black Ship holds. Rising from his crouch, the edge of his habit laced in ice, Saeger returned to his altar.

The Vaenosis. Saeger hadn't heard that word in over twenty years since the Imperial colony 1034. As hoarfrost trickled into meltwater and the braziers banished the Warp's chill, Saeger cast a look at the Tarot cards. The Magus's image rippled. On its surface was now an all too familiar figure clad in ancient ceramite battle plate. He could sense the taint from it. Selina's words spun around the Hereticus Inquisitor's head, making his heart ill at the power they contained. A resounding knock on the chapel door broke the stillness.

"Enter," Saeger commanded.

Confessor Dimitri scurried in, carefully closing the door. Red-faced and breathless, the zealot approached his lord. He proffered a data-slate in sweaty hands. "A message from Inquisitor Gren, my lord. Your astropath died receiving this."

His face a study in indifference, Dimitri stared at Selina's abused and fragile body. She was beginning to stir. In her presence the Confessor worried his mind was being read or the purity of his soul slowly tainted. Reciting a psalm of defence, he made the aquila and the seal of the Imperial saints.

Saeger forgot the presence of the others in the room. Only the data-slate held his attention. The highest encryption locked the message, and only after the machine spirit sampled Saeger's blood and confirmed the gene-code was the communication disclosed. Saeger's surprise was perceptible in every weathered groove on his face.

"The God-Emperor moves His servants to their holy duties. The troubling rumours of Vespor are confirmed," the Lord Inquisitor stated. Turning to where the Divine Tarot lay spread, Saeger kissed the cards reverently. "Inquisitor Gren's work has begun. His actions need support on the hive world."

"_That_ hive world?" Dimitri scowled. He thought back to Vespor's darker days, when the bloated nobility had overreached itself, assuming too much too fast. The quiet edicts issued by Lord Saeger after his meteoric rise culled the more independent thinking nobles, but new rot crept in without careful weeding. Vespor's nobles might yet have mutiny in their hearts. If there was ever a den waiting to descent into the grip of the heretic and traitor, Vespor took that position. Dimitri feared the rash of minor heresies from Vespor reported to him was linked to Saeger's words.

"The decay is setting in," Selina murmured. Wiping her bloodied eyes, she chuckled. "Creeping ever on. Oh yes, curiosity doesn't spare a moment for the thirster of knowledge. He will go to Vespor and with him the mother goes as well. Tasha is so happy, mother!"

Dimitri glanced from the prophetess to Saeger. "Your orders, Lord Saeger. I can gather a loyal contingent of Frateris Militia to aid Inquisitor Gren at a moment's notice."

"Vespor," Saeger breathed the word as though its utterance was poison. "We prepare for Vespor. But quietly, Dimitri, quietly. There is no need for the nobles to know of what is coming. Or to send what darkness is there to hide."

"I will make the preparations, my lord. Will your take your flagship?"

"Not for this," said Saeger. "The _Salva Nos_ will be more than adequate. Have the crew ready to be underway immediately. Only through our speed and decisiveness will this battle be won. The God-Emperor protects, Confessor Dimitri."

Having Selina returned to her cell, the Inquisitor Lord retreated to the security of his offices. Raising falsehoods and safeguards, Saeger removed a slender black case from a surreptitious partition in his desk. Opening it, he keyed in a coded message on the datapad. Created by the Adeptus Mechanicus at great cost, the small device sent out a pulse of information to its twin-linked box. Distance did not matter. As the Lord Inquisitor had been told, this technology predated Old Night. While its components could not easily be replicated, mankind assuredly created it. Now that encryption flew through space to one of Saeger's Throne agents. There were so few to be trusted in these dark times. Seeded in Vespor's sophist nobility, the agent would provide the means for Gren to complete his operation.

Once again Saeger read Gren's message. He looked for hidden meaning between the words, a hint of a ruse or the air of deception. There was no doubt in Gren's affirmation that Vespor's events were directly linked to the Imperial colony 1034. Saeger knew where the doomed colony was involved the machinations of Chaos would reveal themselves. Touching the golden aquila pinned at his throat, the man grinned. It was almost feral in anticipation. Nothing was left to chance. The God-Emperor held a plan for everyone in His great works.

Another black case was removed, another coded message sent. Having left his tutelage a year ago, Amara Kith's travels across the Syntyche sector hadn't gone unnoticed. Inquisitor Lord Saeger kept all his former students on tight leashes. Their dealings were always noted, each move whispered in his ear. He knew as Gren was collared by very specific promises, Amara Kith's chain was even shorter. She could not refuse the order being sent to her.

It was time to let Amara Kith hunt the Dark Mother and Ahriman.

* * *

**023.M42**

_**Khermuti**_

Across the churning waves and eddies of the Great Ocean the light seared. Warp denizens scattered before the overwhelming glow. They returned as their voracious hunger grew. Slicing through the thin membrane separating both realms, the amorphous beings slipping into the Materium as smoke; taking physical form they hunted through Pytren Hive. Time-locked mortals died under slavering jaws, silent screams echoing in frantic minds. Those psychically gifted felt the relic's unleashed power like a thunder hammer against exposed flesh. Guarded minds were spared. Many more were scathed by the relic's force. Unprepared psyches died in agony. Others said that was the kinder death against surviving the horrors crawling across Vespor.

Ahriman, sequestered in his reclusium, received a bloody nose from the psychic shockwave. The unsuspecting blow sent him staggering against the wall. His body rippled with psionic fire, the pain nearly crushing in its intensity. Wiping away the blood as his enhanced body healed, Ahriman drew himself upright. A spot of blood fell on to a parchment on his desk, the crimson red at odds with the white vellum. Intense pressure built at the front of his skull. He was fortunate to have a headache. Lesser mages would have collapsed from the unknown force.

A loud noise drew his attention. Housed on a plinth placed in an alcove, the Seer Stone shook in agitation. Its crystal surface roiled with faint traces of colour; it whispered to the grand sorcerer. Commanded to hunt for one specific psychic pattern, the Seer Stone had made contact. Latching on to the presence with the ferocity of a gene-tracking canine, it quivered, ready to hunt down its quarry. The servos in his armour purring, Ahriman held the miniature Seer Stone.

The Warp tremors mirrored the Kianemure artefact emanations. Within the guarded depths of the _Khermuti_, its twin called out. It beat like a heart, and just beyond the heavy drumming beat, a voice at the threshold of sound could be heard.

As he paced the reclusium holding the Seer Stone, Ahriman reflected. Begun on Inno, the profound campaign he embarked on made Ahriman laugh at the acts of others. Those ruled by superstition would say Tzeentch was guiding him. Ahriman knew that chance, luck, and the gods' whims were little before his resolve. With these thoughts he called for his adepts to meet at the strategium. Standing before his inner cabal, Ahriman spoke of his plan. Vespor would be assaulted. A small force descending on Pytren Hive would seek the next part of the Kianemure relic.

"Vespor is our target but not the goal," Ahriman said. "Moving too close to the plant is foolish. It would endanger the _Khermuti_. A Warp vortex will be created for us to move freely. The assault will be swift with no space for miscalculations."

"The Great Ocean around Vespor is dangerous," cautioned Ibhar. "Distortions may disrupt the gateway's formation. What if we are marooned on Vespor? How will we depart?"

"Do you have such little confidence, Ibhar? You hear the call. It beckons us to complete this great work. You swore to follow after Arcadia, believing I knew best." Ahriman pointed at him. "Now, just as then, I know the galaxy's harsh truth. Do not doubt my actions, just as you do not question the power the Kianemure relic holds."

"I have no reservations, great one." Spreading his hands, palms outward, Ibhar took an entreating posture. "I only point out what might be a flaw."

"I have every assurance the Warp vortex will work. I deign you to cast the spell as you are unequalled in this particular skill." Ahriman's voice set the other Sons on edge. "Noph, send for the Dark Mother. To the rest, prepare the vortex."

The exiled Thousand Sons gathered at the _Khermuti_'s prow. Crafted from herkimate crystal, the summoning hall would serve as the vortex's container. Eight intricately designed concave arches swept upward, reaching to form the chamber's apex. Through the design the Empyrean's raw energy was channelled through the immense amphitheatre. Sweeping tiers of milky white crystal rose back from the room's center. Chained to the translucent rock were slaves whose souls would serve as the spell's foci. Silent adepts consecrated tiers in gold-flecked blood. Lesser sorcerers inscribed astronomical signs based on the _Khermuti_'s location in the Syntyche sector.

The sudden anger washing over the hall set every being on edge. Thundering into the chamber with his choler raised, Osis Pathoth strode toward Ahriman. Serfs hurried away lest they were caught underfoot. Gazes were averted. The grand sorcerer hadn't registered the viceroy's presence, shielded until his dramatic entrance. Unbalanced, Ahriman turned to face Pathoth as he stalked down the crystal steps. The vizier levelled his staff at the marine.

"How was this furore created in the Great Ocean? It reeks of your meddling, Ahriman. One of my sorcerers went mad; another became host to a daemon. What treachery against Magnus are you devising now?"

The challenge was unmistakable. Two certainties were presented: Osis Pathoth and Ahzek Ahriman would fight, bringing down the summoning hall and the ruin of every being within. Metal would buckle as great powers, brought to the fore, would set the air blazing with fire. Death was a certainty, true damnation a likelihood. Or the quarrel could be stemmed, bad blood festering until another point in time. Parts of the _Khermuti _were designated neutral territory; the Thousand Sons believed settling disputes without violence was what civilized beings did. Athenaeums and other repositories of knowledge were not to be attacked or the people inside. Not all abided by this noble principle, and even less sought to uphold the righteous ideal. The summoning chamber was a safe ground threatened.

Hostility strung the air until Ahriman spoke. "There is no treachery in my intentions, Pathoth, only the amassing of knowledge. You must feel the psychic pull of Vespor as clearly as anyone with an iota of talent. Calm your emotions, vizier."

"What is the nature of this disturbance?" Spitting each word, Pathoth's composure was growing thin. Ahriman hadn't seen him act in this manner since the days before the Rubric's casting.

"Alike to the Kianemure relic," said Ahriman, maddeningly calm. Pathoth narrowed hawkish eyes. He looked from Ibhar on the chamber's central platform to the slaves chained along the tiers.

"Is it worthwhile to prepare something as unstable as a Warp vortex to claim it?" the vizier hissed. His gaze slid to the Seer Stone in Ahriman's hand. "You hunt it like a craven dog."

"The Warp vortex is crafted by my most gifted student." Ahriman tightened his grip on his black staff. "I would not be foolish to let idiots handle such precise work."

"That stability becomes threatened on both ends with the Warp's tumult. I am certain even the talentless boors you exploit have enough intellect to caution you. Did he?" Pathoth pointed at Ibhar, deep in concentration.

"Do not be fearful of a minor Warp storm, Pathoth. Those who seek knowledge are afraid of no laws, no petty machinations. Fear halts the minds of those seeking to be great no matter their age or experience." Ahriman heard suppressed chuckling from his cohorts.

Pathoth drew himself to his full height. "What does this have to do with the relic from Kianemure? You have found another part, haven't you?"

"I offered you a chance to understand and you turned it aside. I do not give opportunities to the arrogant again."

"Magnus will hear of your actions. How you withheld information from his advisor to the danger you have placed everyone in, all for your selfish inclinations."

Drowning out Pathoth's words and superseding the building enmity, the distinct psionic pattern of Neferuaat dominated the hall. She entered the great chamber with violet robes fluttering, psycurium veil covering her head, and a quick stride. Silver runes decorated the hem of her robe and sleeves, catching inchoate light as she descended the tiers. Trailing her were four meek-eyed passive children. Psychically linked to each, the Dark Mother controlled their movements as if they were her own. Behind the sorceress came Noph. His chagrin was apparent in the telepathic message to Ahriman.

+I did not know the vizier was coming, my Lord Ahriman. I did not suspect.+

Neferuaat looked over her shoulder. Her mutated eyes showed amusement, pale lips twisting in an ugly smirk at his idiocy. His translucent thoughts were too obvious. Drawing up to Ahriman and Pathoth, dwarfed by their height but not their power, she bowed to her coven master.

"What is your bidding, Lord Ahriman?" She artfully overlooked the sorcerer's distaste when he saw the children.

"Neferuaat will accompany me to Vespor with my retinue." Ahriman turned back to Pathoth. "The Dark Mother belongs to my cabal and will follow exact orders."

"Is it safe?" Neferuaat voiced.

Ahriman disregarded her question. "Pathoth, you will stay on the _Khermuti_, but Kapharon commands both vessels in my absence. You shall refrain from issuing orders if it suits your ego."

"Neferuaat is mortal. She would not survive Vespor's dangers." Pathoth looked at his ward. Too young, he reasoned, she was far too young for something so dangerous.

"Do not obstruct her growth or doubt her abilities. Neferuaat is capable of her own protection on Vespor. If you think I would risk my most valuable apprentice, you take me too lightly, Pathoth."

Neferuaat watched the barely civilized argument as a growing dread crept over her. To look at Osis Pathoth would be invoking his unrest. Fearing chastisement, the woman looked away from her guardian to the summoning hall. This was not the first time she had made planetfall by eldritch means, but the risk this time was greater. She carried no weapons when she had Rubricae to guard her. If they failed, Neferuaat could create her own defences and call forth powers to attack her enemies. Even with these thoughts, she was not eager to go to Vespor. She absently rested a hand on the smallest child's head, stroking his black hair.

Ibhar closed himself from the noise. Aligning his psyche to the resonance of the herkimate crystals, Ibhar poured his essence into the hall. Snatching the serfs souls, tethering them to his work, Ibhar opened the gateway to Vespor. He concentrated on the pulse from the hive world, twining its astral threads into the summoning chamber. Anchoring the gateway, each word of a power a stake driven into the herkimate, the spell held fast. The gateway appeared as a thin sliver of white light. Seeping across the chamber, dousing the crystals in light, its radiance spread over the assemblage, ready for the travellers.

A squad of Rubricae, Noph, and two mages accompanied the arch-heretic. With a nod the Sorcerer of the Cyclops waited for Neferuaat, magnanimous by allowing her to bring the thrall children. Twisting the hem of her veil in corpse hands, Neferuaat's already pale face blanched further. She turned to Pathoth.

+Father, do not make me go. Find a way for me to stay.+

+I cannot.+

Neferuaat regarded Ibhar. Should she wish it, the woman could end him with a thought. Then what of the uncontrolled gateway? Unbound daemons would infest the _Khermuti _and kill everyone. One of the children, feeling the Dark Mother's indecisiveness, whimpered pathetically. He clung to her robes while his older brother shushed him. Crowding closer to the Dark Mother, the youths eyes were tinged with anxiety.

"Promise the children's safety and mine on Vespor, great viceroy." Neferuaat placed her veined hand over Pathoth's right gauntlet.

"Great liars make promises to those naive to the scheming of the gods." Pathoth felt her uncertainty as water running across his skin.

"Tell me a lie I'll believe."

This time he shook his head. "One far better than I is blessed with a silver tongue. Loathed as I am to admit it, with Ahriman you will come to no known harm. Go in faith that Tzeentch plans something mighty for you, daughter."

She left, uncertain and filled with disquiet. Pathoth watched Ahriman's armed coterie step into the Warp vortex, their outlines wavering in the unholy light. As their physical forms vanished to Vespor, their psionic imprint faded over the distance. Concentrating intently, Pathoth could still sense Neferuaat, through the psychic link was fragile. The vizier looked to Ibhar. Rubricae Terminators surrounded the Thousand Son, shielding him against any threat. It disquieted Pathoth to realise others knew more about Ahriman's schemes than he.

Searching for answers with Ahriman's absence would be difficult, yet not impossible. Pathoth chuckled darkly, certain the odds were unfavourable. He greeted the challenge with merriment. He would uncover the plot, warn Magnus of the errant sorcerer's ambitions, and thereby eradicate Ahriman from the Legion and the galaxy. Now all Pathoth had to do was place the regicide pieces on the board.

Secluding himself in one of the small knowledge halls of the _Khermuti_, the vizier meditated. He cast his thoughts into the aether, looking for one particular psychic resonance as old as the Heresy and erratic as a shoal of fish. It was time to for the Vizier of the Magus to summon his pawn into play.

* * *

**023.M42**

_**Iridescent Blade**_

**Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

The _Iridescent Blade _lurched in the Warp storm's growing waves. No one thought much of the emergent storm at first. Many, even the Navigator, surmised it would pass without incident. As Vespor's surface disappeared under a soupy haze of black clouds, lightning storms charging its atmosphere, concern rose. When communication cut off in an abrupt wash of static, the unease morphed into distress. Even the most talented adepts were unable to raise any communications networks on Vespor.

Amara Kith ordered the astropaths to contact Pytren Hive. They spoke of muted sounds, nightmarish visions and behemoths striding across the world. Contact could not be made with Pytren's Choirs or the subsector governor's astropath, but outgoing messages could still be received. Fragmented pleas came through clearly. Broken words, hoarse screams, and white noise followed by frantic muttering composed most. Symbolic-relayed images caught in time loops undid the messengers' resolve. One astropath, shown more than he wished, went mad. A single lasbolt ended his hysteria to keep it from spreading to the rest of the ship's Choir.

In her stateroom the Malleus Inquisitor looked at the kaleidoscopic wash of colour. The void shields were raised – a prudent action – as the storm crashed against the _Iridescent Blade_. Amara was certain the Warp storm's power was growing. She watched the swirling ochre and magenta turn into sobbing faces, eyes begging for rescue. Caught up in miniature cyclones, the lost souls were pulled back into the vicious currents. Amara recalled Inno's golden fields, where two children's lives had been destroyed as a Warp storm raged in the heavens. Amara wondered if it came to it, could she destroy a planet twenty billion souls claimed as home?

She held a black case in tightly clutched fingers. Its simple message brought Amara conviction that all her past actions would be justified. The Sorcerer of the Red Cyclops and the Dark Mother were on Vespor. Would Katea be with those two heretics? If Amara saw her, would she even be able to recognize her cousin after so long? While others pondered the hive world's descent into madness, Kith was burdened by the truth.

She was Malleus. To fight Chaos wherever it appeared was her sacred duty. She knew that Chaos wrecked havoc on the surface. She knew the servants of the god of magic were assembling. Still, Kith held the distinct impression in her mind of a pursuit down twisting, constricting corridors, chasing shadows better left to the dark.

Silencing lingering doubts, Amara Kith geared herself for battle. Changing into black flexible duty armour, the woman buckled her sword to her side, placed her bolt pistol in its holster. Lastly she took an antiquated gravity arrestor, crafted as a grinning skull, from a lockbox. The woman contemplated the gravity arrestor's usefulness as she clipped it to her sword belt. Being prepared was better than going in blind.

"Send an announcement to my warband," the Inquisitor ordered her servo-skull. "Tell them to meet on the embarkation deck in an hour and be fully geared. Give a specific message to the pilot to keep her mouth shut."

Amara Kith marched to the _Iridescent Blade_'s medicae facility. Deck hands, adepts and officers saluted her when she passed. Flying behind her the servo-skull received verification from Kith's cadre. The doors of the medicae center opened with a pneumatic hiss. Yannis glanced up from his scribbled notes when the armoured Inquisitor entered.

"Hello, Yannis," said Kith. Spread out on the apothecary's table were data-slates, grimoires, and recording devices, his banned research from Krenzar continued. Behind the old man lay genetic sequence machines that whirred quietly. Yannis tapped a pen against one of the data-slates while noting the Inquisitor's weapons.

"The, ah, half-breed has not come for her physical check. Please order her to do so. I wouldn't want to force her to the medicae ward under sedatives."

"When the mission on Vespor is concluded," replied Kith absently. She looked around the chamber with an almost curious air. "I see you've kept busy here. Your new employment's better than Krenzar ever was, I gather."

"Only because you allow the budget for it," the old man chuckled. He heaved himself out of his comfortable chair before asking, "What do you need, Inquisitor Kith?"

"I need a few vials."

"How many?" his voice echoed in the weighty silence.

"Twenty," she answered. "I don't know what conditions will be like on Vespor."

She did not say anymore. Yannis understood. Leaving his work the physician shuffled to a stainless steel cabinet set in the far end of the sterile white room. Inputting a code along with his biometric readings into a keypad, the compartment door slid away. Inside were rows of glass vials filled with Kith's rejuvenate. The blue liquid sloshed as Yannis removed one tray. Privy to secrets when people were most vulnerable, Yannis had cultivated an intricate understanding of body language and knew when someone was lying. Placing the tray on the table, he selected the vials.

"You should not be impulsive." Laying each vial out carefully, Yannis wrapped them in a leather pouch. "I know rashness when I see it."

Green eyes narrowed. "You presume too much, physician. Would you tell this Inquisitor what to do?"

"From this bumbling old soul's perspective, only if you haven't thought everything through." Trembling old hands held the pouch out to Kith. "As you are an Inquisitor it means you have a plan. Am I right in my assumption?"

Yannis received a twisted smile. Kith's eyes misted for a moment; settling on an apathetic stance to mask her feelings, all she said was, "Pray for me."

Adding the pouch to her autoinjector kit, she left. Yannis uneasily settled back into his chair, disturbed by the smile and words. He closed his eyes and rubbed his liver-spotted temples. Clasping his hands together, the old man bowed his head over his studies. In a weak voice he began praying for the Inquisitor and her trials undeniably ahead.

While one soul prayed for the Inquisitor's safety, another prayed for righteous fury. An armoured hand slapped a clip into a well-oiled boltgun. Divested of her flamer, Sister Ursula cared with tender dedication to her Godwyn-De'az Pattern boltgun. She counted off the bolt rounds within each sickle-shaped clip, sanctifying each. With a fine-edged whet stone, she sharpened the Sarissa-blade that would be attached to the end of her boltgun. She did all of this while sitting on the embarkation deck, musing over the justice in the heretic's death.

How pure the God-Emperor's vision was. Sweeter than nectar and burning hotter than the heart of a star, the faith sustaining Ursula allowed her to rise above the disgust she felt whenever she saw the filthy pilot. It was not easy – a trial for the woman to suffer – but Ursula knew her willpower was great. Narrowing her eyes, Ursula sharpened the Sarissa-blade while glaring at Kel. The pilot made a point to not look in the direction of the Adepta Sororita while she talked with Dram. The former Guardsman, outfitted in olive green carapace armour and armed with a hellpistol, laughed at something the half-breed said.

"From the blasphemy of the fallen, our Emperor, deliver us. From the curse of the mutant, our Emperor, deliver us. From the taint of the xenos, our Emperor, deliver us." Calmed by the battle prayer, she clipped on the Sarissa-blade.

Ursula was perhaps one of the few keeping her serenity as drama unfolded across the ship. With the Warp storm's threat, the tech-adepts moved in a flurry across the Dauntless-class ship responding to problems. In the _Iridescent Blade_'s embarkation deck they were particularly annoying. Clanking gears and the grinding of mechanical lifters created a thunderous clamour, a dozen or more red-robed Mechanicus trained personnel would swarm a particular craft. Ursula saw the half-breed waved away the misguided assistance of the Tech-Priests when they came toward the Inquisitor's Stormbird. As though the disrespectable being claimed it as hers, perish the thought!

Inquisitor Kith's arrival came without fanfare. The warband could see her striding across the plated deck. Sister Ursula clipped the Sarissa-blade to her boltgun with a sense of finality. Ursula worried a critical part was lacking in each of the warband, a spiritual lapse the Inquisitor saw but did not voice. Amara Kith nodded to her handpicked agents. Inspiring words did not come. Nothing from the Imperial Creed reflected what she felt. Instead she spoke directly to her team.

"We leave for Vespor immediately. The planet's very future could very well be in our hands. What we will do down there will decide the lives of billions of souls."

"Shouldn't there be more of us?" Dram looked skeptical. "No disrespect meant, Inquisitor Kith, but with four people going down to that hellhole, it equals a suicide mission."

Amara Kith fixed him with a piercing glare. "We move quickly. That's why there are so few of us. Who wants to look for people if we become lost in the city?"

Forgetting rank Dram levelled a finger at the Inquisitor. "How many engagements have you been in?"

Ursula scowled at him. "How dare you speak to Milady Kith in this manner? What she says is an order and we will follow what the sanctified Inquisition sets before us."

"And end up dead because of it," replied Dram. "The former commander of the Dreadhaven 17th Company went down that same road because he didn't have any real plan."

"I don't have to explain my reasoning, Dram. You were sworn into my service. Now you must trust my judgement. We will depart for Vespor," Amara Kith repeated. "We'll take my Stormbird with Kelvenia flying."

"I am not riding in a craft piloted by a mixed blood, Milady Kith!"

A virtuous fury rushed through Ursula. She could accept being sent to a world overrun by heretics. Was not her purpose to cleanse the worlds of the God-Emperor of the unfaithful? She gladly bowed before the decision to participate on such a suicidal mission. But to take a craft piloted by a disgusting half-breed whose genetic legacy, let alone her values, was questionable was too much for the Sister of Battle to bear.

"This weather doesn't constitute a safe travel from high dock to a planet filled with who knows what, Inquisitor," Kel ran a hand through dark hair. "I don't know how to fly in this type of void weather! You expect me to work a miracle from insanity. I haven't even gotten use to the Stormbird controls yet."

"Be silent," the Inquisitor spoke harshly. She would not endure her orders being debated. "You will fly the Stormbird. You will land it at the governor's palace. You will not run from your duty unless you want a bolt through your brain. Are we clear?"

The threat motivated Kel to begin the pre-flight checks, cold sweat trickling down her spine. Amara Kith looked icily at Ursula. The battle maiden held her tongue when she climbed into the craft. The only others present in the Stormbird were the lobotomized servitors manning the gun turrets. Besides Kel speaking over the communication channel there was silence. Dram sat in the co-pilot throne, watching Kel guide the dropship after flight clearance. He absently switched his view from the combat knife held in his hands to Kel. She refused to look at Dram, let alone Ursula or the Inquisitor occupying the two passenger seats.

Accelerating away from the _Iridescent Blade_, the Stormbird shuddered in the storm's gales. A cohesive warband would have sung a psalm, done something to raise spirits. Kith's group was dour. Each was left alone with their thoughts. Each confronted their inner turmoil and dealt with it. Clasping her rosette in white gloved hands, Amara Kith contemplated divine providence as the party raced headlong toward Vespor and Pytren Hive.


	12. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**023.M42**

**Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

She stopped relying on the compass hours ago, and the terminals long before that. The cogitators were useless. Hissing with static, the machines spirits corrupted, nothing could be gleaned from the antiquated black marble and gold devices. Rampant magnetic fields cut across the palace and any long-range transmissions. She had been fortunate; her quarters held a safe room. Long after the screams had died away, she emerged into an altered reality. Bloodied handprints smeared the floor and walls, testament to the fate of those people who hadn't found shelter. It was pointless to dwell on what happened to them. For all the pandemonium in Pytren Hive, the noblewoman kept her composure. She blamed it on the Holy Ordos' command.

Sabine's orders were to wait at the Grand Venue. It had been beautiful once. Now the mist peeled the frescos overhead, tainting the holy images. Wind blew in from shattered stain glass windows, while rare veradite busts – overturned in the confusion and terror – lay crumbled on the floor. The slender black case which had transmitted the order – drawing her away from other responsibilities – lay smashed on the black and white tiled floor. Viciously grinding the heel of her boot into the electronics, Sabine turned to a cracked mirror, brushing back a lock of white hair. She would remain composed. She was the picture of elegant hive nobility; even if her tresses were in a dismal state. Having a tantrum would do no good for her image. The Imperium had already taken so much from her. Sabine would not let them take her maturity in this situation.

The situation was horrid. Nightmares made real flew through Vespor's atmosphere, downing transport crafts attempting to flee. Pleas for help in the palace went unanswered as monsters stalked their mortal prey. The invasion jarred memories from Sabine's past as a Throne agent. Back then there had been comrades guarding each other and a fiery Inquisitor who refused to back down. They had fought when the Syntyche sector fell under the xenos threat, and they had won, if it could be called that. Her friends' deaths haunted Sabine even now. Now a different menace had come, one she was ill-equipped to deal with. The daemonic had breached the palace with the swirling mists, pulling people under its bilious currents.

A screech rang up the Grand Venue, pennants rustling from the inhuman sound. The noise sent Sabine ducking into a shadowy alcove for refuge. Her hands trembled as she checked the laspistol's charge. She had found the weapon with Greta, the half of Greta that could be identified. Another screech, much closer this time, made Sabine crouch.

Sabine resolved that if Saeger's contact did not arrive by the next quarter cycle, she would go. The Grand Venue was not safe and her life was worth more than meeting an Inquisitor, even if this one served her former master. The noblewoman straightened and risked a glance down the Grand Venue. Sabine thought she was free of the Lord Inquisitor's influence after all these years. She swallowed her anger at her naivety. The black case mocked her from the ground and picking it up, she furiously threw it across the hall in disgust.

Something approached out of the mist. She raised her laspistol, old skills dominating each movement. In her youth Sabine had been an excellent shot. Age hadn't diminished that. A shadow moved furtively through the coiling fog, its outline wavering in and out of the lumen globes light. Sighting down the barrel, her index finger tensed on the trigger. The outline solidified, turning into an armoured man. Sabine forcefully exhaled and stepped out from the alcove.

The man halted at her sudden appearance. He tensely raised his hellgun. Sabine sardonically wondered if he thought a noblewoman in a tattered maroon dress was a threat.

She spoke, "During times of galactic deceit."

"Stating the truth becomes a revolutionary act," the man finished the code phrase. He produced the rosette of his high office without flourish. Scars patterned his black armour, attesting to the encountered fights to make it this far. Sabine saw the jagged facial tattoo and it sparked a bitter memory. Anger tinged her words.

"Gren," said Sabine. She lowered her laspitol but did not holster it. "I remember you when the Black Ships came. Now here you are, all grown and the lackey of Lord Saeger."

"You are?" His voice was guarded.

"Sabine D'Ebanne, the wife of the governor. I remember when you escorted one of the psykers to the Black Ships. You might remember a little girl in white who held a doll." Sabine's lips curled in a cruel smile at Gren's unease. "Lord Inquisitor Saeger ordered me to support you in your mission."

"Us," he corrected. "Margorach, you can come out. I don't think she will shoot you."

The skull-helmed Eldar emerged from the mist. Sabine snapped her laspistol up, mentally berating herself. She would have never allowed herself to be surprised in her younger years, especially by a xenos. It would have been wiser to have never responded to Saeger's message.

"You ally with the Imperium's enemies?"

"He is a friend, and you will point your laspistol elsewhere." Gren's tone was cold. "He's the one who's kept me alive, and he'll protect you as well. Providing you don't kill him, of course."

Sabine sniffed disdainfully. "Why doesn't he talk?"

"Not until there is need," the Death Jester replied with a civil voice. Sabine raised her delicate chin and, with a forced air of indifference, turned her back on the Harlequin. She could not look too long at the Eldar. His fluid movements produced a swirl of crystal shards which hurt her eyes. Turning north, Sabine walked briskly as her heavy skirts swished over the floor. Her heels crunched over fragments of glass. She heard Saeger's henchman follow, each step a thundering noise in the eerie stillness. The governor's wife did not care if the Eldar followed or not, she just wanted to get away from the Grand Venue.

"My sources confirm that this incursion stems from the palace. You have to take us to its heart, Lady Sabine." Gren raised his eyes at the pennants snapped in a sudden breeze. He did not feel any wind in the vast foyer. "The Lord Inquisitor entrusted me with this mission."

"What do you think the cause is?" she asked.

"A treasure of my people is behind this calamity," said the Eldar.

Margorach's words sent a cold shiver through Sabine. Treasure. One of Atomy's favourite pastimes was to collect trinkets, the same pastime that had brought him trouble in the past. She thought of Atomy's treasure house and the collection amassed over the years. She carefully moved around a fallen pillar, questioning her husband's absence. The subsector governor hadn't been seen since the beginning of the catastrophe.

Tall doors stamped with Pytren Hive's insignia rose from the dark. Beyond was the governor's throne room, but Sabine did not lead them there. Instead, Sabine turned left and continued down the Grand Venue. Colonnades flanked them. Portraits of past governors and officials lined the walls, the oil running down the canvases. Wide enough for a ceremonial procession, in better times the Grand Venue had seen many. Mist lay heavy on the tiled marble. The marble, buckling and pliant under the fog's touch, reminded Sabine of toughened flesh. The wind howled through cracked windows, carrying the scent of charred wood and flesh.

Sabine stopped walking, pressing her hand to the wall for support. The treasure house came to her mind. Dread entered her chest and coiled around her heart. She looked to Gren, about to speak when Margorach hissed, "Hide!"

Gren found cover behind a partially collapsed column, pulling Sabine down next to him. The temperature dropped sharply. Frost patterned over the floor and raced up the pillars. Pressing his back to the soft marble, Gren gripped his hellgun. Sabine held her laspistol in shaking hands. When she looked for the Eldar, he was gone.

"He left us," she whispered, each breath a plume of white. She could not stop trembling as panic entered her voice. "He left us!"

Gren placed a finger against his lips and shook his head. Taking Shadowseer Carrenad's pouch from his belt, he reached in to remove the wraithbone runes. Glowing a vibrant blue and pulsing with life, the Inquisitor prayed they would work.

A hunched, shuffling monstrosity shuffled down the corridor. Its smell reached the two humans before they saw it. A noxious reek of offal and burnt cinnamon choked Gren when he breathed. Sabine shook uncontrollably when she caught sight of the spawn. Her mind refused to acknowledge the thing in her palace. Ropes of saliva dribbled from the spawn's mouth, and when it paused to sniff the air, congealing saliva pooled around its hooked feet. Its form wavered in and out of the material realm as it swung its massive head from side to side.

Sabine felt like her bowels would give. Panic and fear overwhelmed her mind. The governor's wife was ready to run, to scream madly, and to tear at her white hair. Smaller things infested the spawn's ragged pelt, crawling along the russet fur, giggling maliciously. Gren's hand began to burn as the runes worked to mask their souls from the fiend.

Margorach struck when the daemon was almost upon them. Spinning down from the dark ceiling, his flip-belt aiding him, his great scythe cleaved down. The Death Jester sliced through the thick neck in the moments when the being straddled the realms. Pirouetting as he landed, each movement a burst of scintillating crystals, Margorach swung around with the shuriken cannon barrel raised.

"Margorach." Its voice sounded of thunder and broken glass. "How nice to see you again. My brethren look forward to greeting you. Give your troupe my regards if you make it back to the Webway."

The spawn's tongue lolled as the body dissolved. Its link to the Materium severed, the spawn's body shrivelled, and smoke began rising from its body as it dissolved to mucus and pus. Gren drew a shaky breath and tucked the runes back into their purse. Lurching into the corridor, he came alongside Margorach. The Harlequin kept his eyes fixed on the acidic puddle.

"It knew you," said Gren.

"All daemons know the Rillietann as we know them." Margorach said no more and Gren did not press. Staggering toward the duo, Sabine looked at the Death Jester for a long time. She nodded to him, just once, but the action was enough.

"My husband's treasure house," said Sabine. A wavering cry echoed in the air until it ended in a wet crack. Somewhere not far off the sound of jaws crunching bone floated to them. "Stym collects odd trinkets. Sometimes the extraordinary comes into his hands. If you are looking for this relic, Margorach, your greatest chance is that it's in my husband's treasure house."

She made an effort to stop babbling. So close to death and worse, Sabine was shaken more than she thought possible.

"Will Governor Atomy be there?"

"That is the best gamble to where he is. I trust my husband's foolish hobby has brought down my hive city and all Vespor."

"Your husband might still be alive," offered Gren without much conviction.

"My husband is an idiot." A sneer graced Sabine's full lips. "What Atomy did he did to himself, and because of his foolishness, Vespor is close to being damned. He was always weak, especially to the defence of his family. Now everyone else is paying for it."

"Where do we have to go?" Gren shifted his weight, watching the mist coil around the group. Watching, waiting, and listening to every action.

"Up," she replied.

"With Pytren Hive twisting on itself, we don't know if the walls will start attacking us," Margorach chuckled. "Shall we hurry? We have to stop this infestation or else you mon-keigh cannot become heroes."

Tucking a sweat-damp coil of hair behind her ear, Sabine led the way. While Saeger's adjutant did not seem to share his master's ideals, Sabine knew Inquisitors were at heart merciless. She did not want Vespor put to the torch any more than she wished daemons to infest her home. Her stride quickened until she was running, and Margorach and Gren were too.

* * *

Kel's ability to fly the Stormbird was at best mediocre. It was not her fault; Kel hadn't been given time to fly it on her own. She had no clue how far she could push the craft. Kel suspected the Inquisition in general did not give its agents much time for mission practice. The pilot guided the Stormbird into the roiling storm clouds, praying to Isha in every moment. Cold sweat covered her skin.

The Stormbird's engines whined in protest as its spirit conveyed annoyance through the blinking console lights. Like its occupants, the Stormbird was not happy with the half-breed. Only Dram seemed to be on Kel's side, commenting on the sensors readings or quietly offering a word of support. The ping-backs from Vespor's surface were odd. One moment the ground was less than seventeen thousand miles below; then the sensors read there was no ground. Kel tapped one of the augurs and wondered if the Tech-Priests actually maintained the craft. When the Stormbird passed into the stratosphere the Stormbird stopped rattling, but flying became more difficult.

"Can you see in this?" asked Dram.

Murky fog coiled over the vessel. Sensors and augurs on the dropship were almost blind and Kel could not see the ground below. Her hands gripped the controls tightly. Just her luck. Turbulence buffeted the vessel, throwing its occupants forward, harnesses keeping them in their seats. The Stormbird juddered again. Ursula started praying, calling on the saints to help the idiotic half-breed guide them to safety. Kel wanted the bitch to bite her tongue.

"Are you locked on to Pytren Hive's coordinates?" the Inquisitor called over the roaring engines. Through the dropship's canopy, red and violet hues tinged the grey clouds.

"I am. We're still eight thousand miles above it. Now we're six thousand. Wait… twelve thousand." Kel pulled on the controls as another shudder rocked the craft. "There's a lot of interference from below." The small topographic map flickered with static. Pytren Hive's vast dimensions bathed the cockpit in a ghostly green. A flashing blip of yellow identified the governor's palace. "I'll be lucky to find a spot to land the Stormbird in this fog."

"You'll manage, Squints." Dram's chuckle was at odds with the tense situation. "Then we'll all do our jobs. Which reminds me, Inquisitor Kith?" The ex-Guardsman looked over his shoulder at her. "What is the mission objective?"

Ursula's prayers ceased and she watched the Inquisitor. Amara Kith considered telling them nothing except to follow her orders without question or dispute. But their spirits were low, and she knew deceit would not work in her favour. It was better to speak than to remain quiet.

"We are hunting the Dark Mother." Amara licked her lips. "The order for this undertaking came from the Lord Inquisitor of the Syntyche sector."

"Divine Emperor, protect us in our trials," Ursula whispered, and then swore as the Stormbird swerved violently. "The witch is on Vespor? Truly?"

"She is, Sister Ursula."

The battle maiden's reply was drowned out as the Stormbird's engines changed pitch. Amara Kith's team were brutally slammed forward into their harnesses as the craft was pulled backwards. Alarms shrilled as red light bled into the cockpit. The console lit up as warning runes flashed. The turret servitors opened fire on the threat. On the pict-screen overlooking the dropship's stern, gun fire lit up the dark, exposing in brief flashes the beast holding them.

Wickedly curved claws ripped into the Stormbird's tail, slicing into plasteel armour. A sinuous shape neither wholly bird nor serpent held them. Its hooked beak opened in a thundering shriek as the bolt rounds passed through its ethereal flesh. Great pinions beat quickly as the daemon struggled to fly with the dropship, unwilling to let its prey go.

Kel threw all power into the engines. The craft juddered wildly, fighting against the daemon's grip. The daemon's whip-like tail crashed into one of the turrets, crunching the metal, glass and flesh into nothing. The second gun turret quickly followed. Talons pierced the hull as the Stormbird was wrenched from side to side. A pipe crack open in the back compartment, spraying coolant across the walls and deck. Objects not bolted down flew; a spinning wrench hit Ursula's shoulder. The woman cursed as pain burned across her arm.

Amara Kith shouted over the shrilling alarms, "Kel, cut the engines when I say!"

Too terrified to say anything, Kel nodded. Amara's hands curled into fists, her senses dulling. The alarms' shrieks faded, the reek of coolant and sweat diminished, and colour vanished as the Inquisitor brought forth her silence. Having never used her ability to this scale, she was uncertain it would work. Neither did she know the effects on her body, but a crippled body was better than death. Survival was all that mattered. She had to make it to Pytren Hive. She had to save Katea.

The silence rippled over the Stormbird. Screaming in pain, the daemon's claws slipped off the Stormbird.

"Cut the engines!"

Gravity pressed down on them unrelentingly as the Stormbird dropped. New alarms clamoured in the cockpit, Ursula's voice rose in frantic prayer, and the unnatural clouds rushed past. The wind howled as the dropship plummeted as if laughing at them. Dram gritted his teeth, looking at the ceiling. Amara Kith focused her nullility, grounding it in catechism.

_The daemon will not harm me for I walk in the God-Emperor's light_. She concentrated on the blessed stillness and kept the enemy at bay. _They who serve will dwell in the glory of the Imperium_.

In the pandemonium, Kel watched the altitude gauge's dropping numbers at her stomach churned. She dimly made out the hive city as they fell, spires and forge manufactorums piercing the thick clouds. Under eight thousand feet and with the vessel shaking, the half-breed almost lost her nerve. Kel slapped a panel and the engines roared to life. The sound was glorious, muffling the fading alarms. The Stormbird's narrowly missing a metal advertisement before Kel levelled them out. Dram clapped his hands while Ursula kissed her rosary beads. Relief flooded the cockpit like a balm, but the Inquisitor could not have a respite. Amara Kith could not let go of her silence – not now, not until the mission's end. She did not know if fear caused her to shiver or something else.

"Approaching Pytren Hive," Kel said. Realising the magnitude of what she had signed up for, the woman wondered if her cell was still vacant. She swallowed the bile that rose up her throat.

Pytren Hive emerged though the murk like a pict coming into focus. Its lights blazed, the lucent glow exposing dark shadows in the mist. Leviathans moved through the miasma, and Kel kept the Stormbird at a safe distance from the palpable threat. Twice she circled the spire, searching the governor's palace for a place to land the damaged vessel. When she could not find one, and nerves taut from avoiding the beings in the mist, she was forced to guide the Stormbird lower.

A large plaza presented itself. Kel artfully avoided crushing the few trees and hedges. The plaza was deceptively normal against the lurid backdrop of the hive city. Harnesses were released and weapons were checked.

"With no gun turrets, the Stormbird's a sitting anatidae. The engines are okay but I have to check the hull. If it's compromised I can't promise the safest flight back to the _Iridescent Blade_." She cycled down the Stormbird's systems but kept the engines warm. "If I come under attack, I'll have to take off and circle the hive."

Kel started at seeing bright green eyes too close for comfort. A wave of nausea gripped the half-breed, stomach clenching and throat constricting. She was certain it had nothing to do with Pytren Hive and everything to do with the Inquisitor looming over her. Terror overcame Kel as her sickness intensified. Like an infection, it built in her body until Kel was visibly shaking.

"You will do no such thing." Amara Kith's hand rested on the pommel of her sword. She pointed at Dram who stiffened under her gaze. "Dram, you'll remain here. Defend the Stormbird if it's attacked. Do not allow Kel to take off."

"We should have brought more support if this was your plan." The man checked his hellpistol's charge, clipping its compact power pack to his ammo belt. "This really is a suicide mission." He nearly spit, checking the action as Amara Kith frowned.

"Your mission is sanctioned by the Holy Ordos, the highest of Imperial authority beneath the Emperor. Plans change, Guardsman." Her words held an unspoken threat. She wiped the beaded sweat on her brow. "Sister Ursula, ready yourself. We will go to Pytren Hive."

Turning away from Dram and a sickened Kel, the Inquisitor exited the Stormbird. Her commands were appropriate and her will was firm. She thought it was her imagination when the mist swirled away at her approach. When she saw the damage done to the craft, the woman winced. A dull click to her back alerted Amara that the servo-skull had followed its mistress. The automaton's frontal bone was cracked from being tossed about in the Stormbird.

"I'm not being unreasonable, am I?" she asked the servo-skull. It regarded her in silence. She looked over the Stormbird again. If she hadn't used her ability, they would all have been killed. Breathing deeply, a flash of pain lanced through her side. Amara's breath left her lungs in a choking whisper. Fumbling for her autoinjector, Amara slid a vial into its hold.

She sunk to her knees, nostrils flaring and eyes wide as the pain intensified. Her concentration slipped, blackness lapping at the edge of her vision. The mist curled toward the woman. Noises became too loud; distant cries sounded like howls, glass breaking a cascade of rocks down a mountain. Amara Kith forced the needle through her black duty armour, depressing the autoinjector into the crook of her arm. The blue liquid drained from the glass vial. The fog retreated from the shaking woman. In increments the pain diminished. Amara focused on capturing the silence, breathing fitfully as it was restored to her.

Nineteen vials of rejuvenate. Looking up at Pytren Hive and the palace at the top, Amara hoped it was enough to keep her alive. She was about to face a figure of distant legend and heresy. She would find out what happened to Katea, and confront a woman rotting the Syntyche sector. Burdened with the knowledge, the Inquisitor began to doubt. She closed her eyes as she stood.

_I will give a pound of flesh if it means I can find Katea_, she prayed silently.

"Milady Kith, lead and I follow."

Ursula strode down the Stormbird's ramp. She dismissed what she had seen; preferring to believe the Inquisitor had knelt to pray. Holding her bolter in a sure grip, Ursula's helmet displayed her surroundings in a luminous green. Amber target markers shifted as the Sister of Battle scanned the area. She trusted Inquisitor Kith in all decisions. When they found and slew the Dark Mother, Sister Ursula's sins on Isfarena would be absolved. She would attain grace and rejoin her sisters with pride. The success of this mission was her main concern.

"We ascend to the governor's palace. The God-Emperor will guide us in our task." Amara Kith racked the arming slide of her bolt pistol.

They marched into the mist and the hive. The red light winked from the servo-skull's eye before they were swallowed in the darkness. Only Dram saw the Inquisitor and Sororitas depart. He leaned nonchalantly against one of the Stormbird's landing gears, raising an eyebrow as the half-breed ran out of the craft. Kel retched in the bushes, holding her stomach as tears tracked down her face.

"I should have brought more grenades," he muttered to himself.

* * *

The relic's power was a thunder hammer from a distance. On Vespor it became a burning sun in the mind. The pain flared, fire racing along neural pathways and beyond the physical senses. Sorcerer-adept Ibni held the Warp vortex open with difficulty. Bending on one knee before the gateway, head bowed and eyes bleeding, Ibni grasped the slender thread connecting back to the _Khermuti_.

"This miasma," said Noph, noting the mist swirling around them. "Is this from the Warp?"

"The relic," replied Ahriman. He looked down the vast and dark corridor, seeing future possibilities play out. His mental wards, under duress from the relic's emanations, were not as strong as he would have liked. "Unlike the Kianemure relic, this one is not shielded. Its unchecked power plays havoc."

"My nose!" one of the children cried. The sorcerer turned at the noise. Neferuaat crouched in front of the urchins, dabbing frantically at the blood dribbling down their faces.

+Keep them silent.+ Ahriman's order made Neferuaat flinch. The Dark Mother looked at him, nodding once. Bloody tears tracked down her pale skin, grotesque against the veins. She gathered her psycurium veil close, glad for the feeble protection it offered.

+Noph, leave a Rubric Marine to guard Ibni.+ One of the Rubricae marched stiffly to Ibni's side, bolter ready. Ahriman gestured to the remaining sorcerer-adept whose helm was a crested serpent. +Heqet, a kine shield.+

They began to march. Noph commanded the nine remaining Rubricae. The Astartes flanked the small cabal as they walked into the mist. Neferuaat and her children kept to the middle, Heqet one step behind as Ahriman walked at the head. The Great Ocean washed over him and in its water the sorcerer felt the aether's filth. The air shimmered about the group as Heqet manipulated the kine shield, his psychic senses strained against the Warp beings stalking the halls and tree-lined avenues the group traversed.

With a ferocious hunger, the seer stone guided Ahriman. It sang in high, crystalline notes to where the part of the relic waited. Ahriman held back from blindly rushing to his goal. Akin to a dry forest waiting for a spark, Pytren Hive could become an inferno. One misuse of psychic power could send all to ruin. Ahriman saw the hazards, from folded pockets of time to the rifts opening into other realms. He advanced with caution, letting his mind's sight show him the path.

+Great one,+ Noph sent. +Where are we in the hive?+ Dividing his attention between the Rubricae and his surroundings was more difficult than he would admit. The Great Ocean seethed one moment against the hive city; next it was quiet. It unnerved Noph.

The seer stone trembled in Ahriman's gauntlet. Ahriman let his mind flow down the dark halls and shrouded chambers of the governor's palace, a skiff on stormy water. He plucked memories and emotions from the swirling mist to ascertain where they were. He followed the gossamer cord the seer stone created, untapped power running along the coiling thread. It trailed through gloomy rooms, coiled up grand staircases, and slithered across vast squares. It passed through a door of cold iron and glinting silver before Ahriman lost sight of it in a blazing light connected to it.

+Above us,+ answered Ahriman, his mind's eye stretched as far as he dared. Pain throbbed at the back of his skull in hot bursts. +It isn't much farther.+

Neferuaat looked up. +It's a fire. A fire burning at the top of the hive.+ A starburst of light raced through her skull. She tasted blood in her mouth. One of the children, Rais, gripped her hand tightly. He felt her pain as keenly as if it were his.

The Dark Mother was right. At the summit of the palace was a beacon. Gathering around it were the dark and heavy auras of daemons. Ahriman's primary concern was remaining hidden from the unbound daemons. With no true name to bind them, speed and cunning were needed to skulk past their gaze. The hallways were lifeless as the coterie passed. The dull thuds from the Rubricae's footsteps were swallowed in the heavy air. Cracked lumen globes offered weak illumination, pooling white effluvium making the light look as if it were submerged just below the surface of the water.

Another flare of pain preceded a vision of fire. Ahriman saw armoured warriors overcoming a fire, clawing at the others to survive. Blinking quickly as the images faded, the warlock continued to follow the path of the diaphanous thread. Passing under a triumphal archway, Ahriman paused at the edge of a grand chamber.

Once it had been the governor's Hall of Mirrors, a chamber that delighted the hive nobility. Now it was a shadow of faded glory. Tapestries lining the walls were scorched and ruined, and the floor pitted and cracked. Puddles of blood patterned the marble. Neferuaat blinded her children to the sight, whispering for them to trust her. The mirrors which had lined the walls were shattered. Refracted dimensions glinted across the mirrors' surfaces. It was dangerous to look into the shards for too long.

A freezing aetheric wind passed through Ahriman as he crossed the chamber's threshold. He saw the white plume of his breath through his grille as frost crept across the cracked floor. As the cold grew inside him to a freezing degree, Ahriman knew what it meant. Gripping his staff tightly enough for the servos in his gauntlet to whine, foreboding spun webs in the sorcerer's thoughts. The seer stone quivered. In a moment of crystal clarity, Ahriman knew this moment.

Jollana's sending was coming full circle. This moment, preordained and fixed in Time's flow, could only be faced, not avoided.

+Prepare!+ Ahriman's command rushed through the others minds.

Noph commanded the tactical knowledge of the Rubricae. Moving into a defensive half circle, the soundless Rubricae raised their bolters. Their thoughts hissed in the sorcerer-adept's mind, and Noph felt sweat break across his brow. As a surge in the Warp's energy cascaded over him, his grip on the Rubricae faltered. The ghostly light in their green lenses dimmed, brightening as the puppet master regained control.

Ahriman approached Neferuaat to pass the seer stone to her. The air began to crackle with electricity. It arced from the mirror shards. Capering shadows darted across the distant ceiling, slithering down the crumbling hive walls.

+Find the relic. Once you have it return to the Warp vortex. Do not delay.+ Ahriman reached into the woman's mind and showed her the thread to follow. Blue and green hues churned inside the orb. +Heqet, ensure she finds it.+

Ahriman watched the Thousand Son sorcerer-adept, the Dark Mother, and her brood vanish back into the mist. He turned back to the chamber, watching the electric arcs grow as the smell of burning ozone filled the Hall of Mirrors. A lightning strike flashed, followed by a hard bang that displaced the fog. The mirrors shattered further, dusting the air in glittering shards.

The past and present collided as Ahriman saw the sending from Jollana made flesh. Clad in black power armour heavily edged in gold, the man dominated the room with his presence. A tri-barred "I" was worked into the black surface; holy litanies scrawled on parchment protecting the Inquisitor's soul. The mortal drew his force sword at Ahriman, ochre eye lenses worked into a helmet shaped like a roaring lion. The chill fled from the Chaos sorcerer, replaced with fiery adrenaline.

"In the name of the Holy Ordos and the God-Emperor, you will submit to the Imperium's judgement!" Lord Inquisitor Saeger's words thundered across the hall, losing none of their ferocity from the vox-grille. Through the holy wards of his armour, he could feel the very evil from the butcher of Inno.

"I will take his head if you give the word, my lord." Canoness Preceptor Loren's voice whispered in Saeger's ear over a private comm-channel.

She stood to his right, sword drawn and body tense. The Canoness gave her gratitude the _Salva Nos_ teleportation array had brought them to bestow the Emperor's wrath. Surely the Emperor had quickened the Warp travel just as He guided them safely to Vespor and Pytren Hive. She viewed the assembly of Saeger's might.

The Lord Inquisitor's Celestine bodyguards; two Ebon Chalice squads flanking them while a contingent of storm troopers stood with Confessor Dimitri. Hunched next to the Confessor was a shivering arco-flagellant, subdued with its pacifier helm in place. Loren regarded her foe, righteous hate filling her heart.

Ahriman would have laughed if he could have found the humour. The Inquisitor's numbers were insulting in this clash. Bringing his mind into the higher Enumerations, he felt time shift. "Who of the Emperor's lapdogs challenges me?"

"The Lord Inquisitor of the Syntyche sector challenges." His aiming reticule locked on to the arch-heretic, and Saeger grinned wolfishly under his helmet. "For decades I have tracked your path, and I will be the one to allot you justice. The Ordo Hereticus suffers not the witch to live and upon my pledge to the Throne, today will be your last!"

"Your judgement is of a hypocritical and weak mortal." Ahriman drew on the Great Ocean's power, the aether swirling about him. "You have so-called witches in your own ranks," Ahriman pointed his staff at the witch hunter's force sword. "Do you not?"

The thin blade that balanced Fate plunged downwards.

"Blessed are those who keep faith in Him," roared Lord Inquisitor Saeger. "He who dies in the glory of the Imperium will be forever venerated!"

Loren led the charge, her Celestine squad opening fire as the battle maidens rushed forward. Confessor Dimitri shouted a word and, with a murderous howl, the arco-flagellant awakened. Veins bulged across scored flesh as drug injectors pumped reaction and aggression narcotics into the arco-flagellant's body. A kine shield rippled, absorbing the impacting bullets. Noph raised his hand; the Rubricae raised their bolters and fired. Two storm troopers screamed as enchanted flames wreathed them, melting skin and charring bone.

One of the Rubricae strode forward, khopesh in hand. Moving faster than the eye could track, the Rubric Marine slashed diagonally, cutting one of the power lashes from the arco-flagellant's arms. The penitent gave a powerful bound, crashing feet first into the sapphire breastplate. The Rubric Marine rocked back. Dropping the khopesh, the spirit silently raised its plated hands, grabbing the arco-flagellant's neck. Inferno bolts howled through the air, finding targets as quickly as the Ebon Chalice warriors dodged. A trio of them charged Noph. The Sororitas froze as Noph turned toward them. Paralysed, an invisible force took control of their bodies. Noph threw the battle maidens through the air with a contemptuous flick of his hand. The telekinetic blast crushed them against the far wall, their crumpled armour becoming their tombs.

Ahriman's mind was already moving even as the Inquisitor's warriors charged. His crafted a fatal thought, throwing it through the aether as a keen-edged knife. It fragmented against the mental barrier Inquisitor Lord raised. Shielded by the man's faith and psychic defences, Ahriman could find no cracks. Snarling in anger, the sorcerer pulled back to launch a different attack.

The Lord Inquisitor struck first. Saeger's force sword, a blazing light cleaving the air, cut upward. Ahriman blocked the strike with his black staff, quickened his movements and pulled away from his advesary. Lightning crackled in the space between them, summoned in Ahriman's palm. It arced from Arhiman's fingers to Saeger. The force sword absorbed the white forks and did nothing to slow the man's charge.

"You took the rightful toll from the Black Ships that day!" Saeger's sword ripped Ahriman's tabard. "You damned the souls of Inno. With the Emperor's providence, I will finish my duty."

Prescience kept Ahriman one step ahead of the fanatic's blows. A kine shield deflected the first strike. Ahriman twisted aside the second blow, feeling the sword cut across his aura. Ahriman felt the blade across his flesh as if it had hit true. Blood dripped down his arm. Ahriman sought an opening to attack but even without the heightened reactions of an Adeptus Astartes, the madman proved he was not inept.

A shoulder guard crumpled under Ahriman's telekinetic blow. Saeger sprung forward undeterred, his sword slashing the air where Ahriman had stood a moment before. The warlock sensed the unbound fervour of the man's soul, tasting it as bitterness on his tongue. Ahriman struck a ringing blow against the lion helmet with his staff.

"With an Inquisitor Lord like you it's a wonder that this whole sector hasn't been destroyed by flames." A black gauntlet caught the staff. Sanctified parchment slips began to burn. Across the sudden link, Ahirman could read the ambition and dedication of the Inquisitor. He knew the extremes the man would go to in eradicating Chaos.

"To destroy you, I would burn the whole Syntyche sector." The Warp energy channelled through Ahriman's staff passed into Saeger; he bit the inside of his mouth against the pain.

"Is that a challenge?" A sliver of power enhanced by the Warp saturated Materium, and Ahriman manipulated the composition of the floor.

The Lord Inquisitor fell to one knee as the floor buckled under him. He rolled out of the path of a bolt of lightning. Marble ripped apart. Then Saeger was defending, his armour shielding his body, his mental powers guarding his mind from Ahriman's attacks. He saw Canoness Loren and her Celestine squad attack one of the Rubricae. Anointed blades and blessed bolts brought the armoured giant down, opening rents across the ceramite plate. The arco-flagellent fought on with its remaining power lash to bring down the undead Astartes that tried to choke the life from the Ecclesiarchy servant.

They could win yet. Saeger could hold a victory over the eternal enemy. Lord Inquisitor Saeger's heart lurched in his throat when he saw the heretic souls pulled back into the armour. The metal knitted together, sealing the dust and spirits of the Thousand Sons once more. The arco-flagellant hissed at the Rubric Marine, its muscles bunching to jump again. An inferno bolt caught the penitent in the back. Flames licked over its abused flesh until the arco-flagellant was no more.

Canoness Loren's scream echoed over the vox. Saeger could not find her in the frenzied combat, but her screams rose until they were abruptly silenced. He prayed, his hand gripping his sword. He sent his power into the blade's core. The Emperor was with them. He would not abandon His faithful servants in their darkest hours. Claws scrabbled at the crumbling walls of Saeger's mind. He heard whispers from the arch-heretic. Images pooled in his consciousness that would not leave. Saeger yelled, a furore overcoming him as he stood.

"I am the hammer. I am the point of His spear." Saeger's force sword cut Ahriman's left greave. "I am the sword in His hand. I am the gauntlet about His fist." The holy litanies burned across Saeger's armour. The Inquisitor Lord blink-clicked a rune in his helmet's display; an absolution sent to the _Salva Nos_. He fought on. "I am the bane of His foes and the woes of the treacherous. I am your end!"

Ahriman sensed the Lord Inquisitor reaching into the Warp, drinking from it like a man dying from thirst. Saeger's force sword turned the dark red of beaten metal. Ahriman channelled the Warp through his black staff. Thick frost patterned the floor, rose up his armour, and across the joints. Manipulating the electric current in his body, Ahriman twisted lightning through the air and threw it at Saeger. The holy runes on Saeger's battered armour flared. Black lacquer peeled and holy seals burned yet Saeger barrelled on, his aura a maddened crimson.

Fate may have called this battle, but Ahriman would determine the ending. He cleared his mind. Blood flowed through his body in concord with the aether's shift. He became a thought rising above the waves and whirlpools of the Great Ocean, mind balancing his humours and aligned his physical self, for balance was needed if he would win this battle, in this place and time. The aether surged through Ahriman. Psionic energy froze his flesh and boiled his blood, power that obeyed the will of its wielder.

+Cover.+ Urgency tinged Ahriman's command.

Ahriman's hearts beat once. Time slowed as the warlock loosened his spell. The powerful words rang out from silent lips, given purpose and terrible form. A wave of fire, riding on the Great Ocean's currents merging with real space, crashed down from above. It consumed what it touched, insatiable and unstoppable.

Far above the Hall of Mirrors, Margorach paused. He felt Pytren Hive shiver as a canine would shake to dislodge a flea-nit. The rune on his necklace burned as it felt the rush of power. Sabine halted, looking in fear at the Harlequin.

"What can you sense?" she whispered.

"Arduous fate drawing close," he answered.


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**023.M42**

**Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

The card guided Amara better than the servo-skull's maps ever could. In the past the Inquisitor had often asked the card to reveal the way to an individual or article, and it did so with startling accuracy. She plucked it now from the inside of her glove, turning the worn cardstock over in her hands, focusing her mind. She asked, "Where is the Dark Mother?"

She dropped the card far away from her person, green eyes following as it fluttered to the ground. The marked edge pointed toward an ironwork staircase rising up in the gloom. Wreathed in mist, the stairs presented an unknown danger, just like everything else in the hive. Amara Kith took her card and tucked it back inside her glove as she contemplated the path. Tightening her grip on her sword, the Malleus Inquisitor motioned for Sister Ursula. They began climbing the sweeping steps.

Although the Sister of Battle was sworn to follow her mistress, the approach taken by the Inquisitor did not sit well with her. Mist kicking up with every footstep and cascading down the stairs, the battle maiden felt uneasy. Sister Ursula's aiming reticule highlighted potential dangers as her bolter swept the darkness to find a foe.

"We are protected by His strength," Ursula spoke over the vox-link. Their footsteps rang in the cursed quiet. "He guides us; His great will is channelled through your card, milady."

Conviction laced her voice. She did not believe that a mere card, one not even associated with the Divine Tarot, was guiding their way. Her helmet's runes changed from amber to red, targeting forms which skittered too fast to track. Ursula kept her guard up; having expended one clip in the lower levels, she conserved her ammunition now. Inquisitor Kith kept most of the fiends at bay with her unique gift, but the battle nun's blood ran hot in anticipation of a clash.

At the top of the stairs a wide corridor stretched in to the distance. Hints of opulent wall hangings indicated they were now in the palace. Amara Kith could not see far ahead, and when she looked past Ursula, the slow moving vapour concealed what lay behind. Her silence felt like a great weight on her chest as the Warp pressed against her. A tremor shook her body. She felt things _shift_. Dancing to a tune the woman never heard or wanted to name, the quake bled through her nullility and feverishly lurched across the hive.

Amara Kith's concentration wavered. Halting, she turned and brushed past Ursula, waving her hand through the thick murk. The action confirmed the suspicions she held. The way back was gone, replaced with a solid wall which merged seamlessly from the floor to the ceiling. Trepidation was juxtaposed with acceptance. The Inquisitor had suspected this would happen.

She was being led. Things stalking but not attacking; hallways free of opposition while their pursuers growled in the shadows. Amara Kith knew her card acted as a focus for whatever sinister mind directed her movements and reshaped the palace's architecture. She knew, and she cared little. The Inquisitor wanted to be led to her quarry, and she would follow wherever the path led.

Ursula was not as accepting to her fate as the Inquisitor.

"By the saints' bowels," Ursula kicked the wall. Her nerves were stretched taut.

"Keep moving," said Amara Kith. A hissing whisper came from overhead. Ursula answered with a quick burst from her bolter. Plaster dropped onto the floor, but whatever creature was on the ceiling was not heard from again.

In the following quiet they could hear the faint lapping of water. It grew louder with each step down the shifting corridor. Entering a decrepit chamber, the sound of crashing waves grew. Water surged over an unseen shore, a horrible sucking noise resonating as the liquid was pulled back. Spray filled the air, patterning against the Inquisitor's face and Ursula's helm. Even with her dulled senses, Amara tasted the moisture. A brutal wave crashed in the dark.

Her left hand trembled violently. The Inquisitor's body began protesting at the extended use of her ability. Skin began to feel like it was burning. Her tongue felt heavy and dry. Her chest felt constricted. Cursing, the Inquisitor sheathed her sword to reach for her rejuvenate. Gripping her bolt pistol in one hand, she awkwardly took out her autoinjector, slotting a vial into it.

"Faltering Throne!"

Ursula's words caused the Inquisitor to look at her. Then she followed the battle maiden's line of sight upward. Horror crawled over her face. Water swirled over the far-off ceiling. Ripples coursed across its dark surface. Glowing shapes flitted under the black waves. Just beneath the waves, at the edge of human sight, were the bodies. Palace inhabitants, bloated flesh straining against fine clothes, victims to the Warp's power. A porcelain doll floated in the water, clutched in a tiny hand.

A daemon swam up from the watery depths, its eyes glowing in raw hunger and rage. Twisting its great form, the Warp denizen looked at the mortals. It could taste one soul in the aether-rich air. The other was an oddity, but no doubt its bones would crack as surely as the others had. Arms unfurled from its grey-scaled hide; claws pricked against the water's surface. A line broke across the smooth face, revealing a mouth with far too many teeth. The daemon's consciousness thundered against Amara Kith's mental defences. She was a kite caught in its tempest. Her concentration fragmented against the unanticipated onslaught. Her autoinjector and bolt pistol fell from nerveless hands.

Then it was bursting from the water, landing with a shuddering crunch on the floor. The torrent of water turned to ice, bodies hitting the frozen lake with a dry crack of bones. Ursula raised her bolter instinctively. She fired at the daemon, sanctified rounds exploded against its hide. Luminescent light rippled along its scales as it burned. The daemon's hold to the Materium was tenuous, but holy bullets alone would not finish it. Screeching in animalistic rage, the daemon charged toward its prey.

Sister Ursula cried out the Psalm of Aversion, her conviction a weapon against her foe. The daemon did not stop at the words. Emptying her clip, the Sister of Battle reloaded and continued to fire. She refused to give ground before a servant of Chaos. It was upon her and Amara Kith in three heartbeats. Crashing into the battle maiden, the daemon tossed the armoured woman aside like a doll.

Blinding light flashed in the chamber. Struggling to her feet with her bolter gripped in one hand, Ursula held her rosarius in the other. The conversion field crackled as the holy symbol revitalised itself. Feeling blood trickle down her face, a sharp pain in her legs when she moved, Ursula staggered. Lifting her bolter, struggling against its sudden weight, she sighted. Her aiming reticule locked on the daemon, and the battle maiden let her faith and training replace her fear.

The daemon charged the Inquisitor. Her mind could not focus on her nullility; her whole body felt like it was being incinerated. Amara Kith dodged, but not fast enough. One of the daemon's claws nicked her shoulder, sending the woman crashing into a pile of corpses.

"Milady!" She heard Ursula's voice as a thin note. Amara Kith's weakened body began to fail.

Bolt rounds whizzed through the air. The Sister of Battle advanced on the daemon, forcing it to confront her. Ice and frost were kicked up as claws raked across the floor, moving away from the Inquisitor. Her vision blackening, Amara pushed against the bloated corpses. She looked for her bolt pistol or her autoinjector, saw only the daemon wheeling about the edge of the chamber. Sister Ursula held its attention, her voice loud and defiant as she sang a battle hymn.

Fires burned the daemon's flesh, blackening the air with smoke. Ursula fired at its chest, hoping to score a wound on its soft underside. Roaring in unfettered hate, the daemon reared back. It lowered its head as it thundered toward the warrior. Ursula would not be able to avoid the charge.

Iron bands encircled Amara's heart as she surged to her feet. The pain arced over her body as she began to run, sliding across the ice. She forced her hand to clench her sword hilt and pull the blade free. Fire burned in her muscles, roasted her veins, and boiled her blood. Gritting her teeth, finding her silence in the panic overtaking her mind, she forced it to work for her. She cast no shadow in the Warp. From the reserves of her soul the Inquisitor met the daemon. Her sword was a silver curve as it found its target.

Screaming, eyes aflame, the daemon's charge faltered. Its form met the Inquisitor's projected dead space. Bringing her sword down with all her remaining strength, Amara Kith guided the xenos blade into the daemon's scaly neck. At the same time Sister Ursula fired her remaining rounds at the daemon's lurching form. Its bellow rang in their ears as it felt all too physical pain.

Amara Kith pressed her nullility against the daemon's oily-slick aura. It could not wrest more strength from the Immaterium. Denied the aether that fed it, the being screeched as the holy bolt rounds tore into its flesh. Explosions ruptured inside it; cleansed salt, tears from the Golden Throne, and the blood of Imperial saints severing its existence. As it wasted away, the Inquisitor's concentration of her un-sight fled.

"My vial..." said Kith, slumping to the ground. Her sword clattered to the floor as her heart was slowly being crushed, starved of oxygen. Fire seethed in her guts as waves of nausea roiled over the woman. She retched into the melting ice and frost, the odour of rotting corpses filling her nostrils.

Ursula quickly retrieved the autoinjector, uttering her apologies as she depressed the needle against Kith's throat. Slowly the burst blood vessels in the Inquisitor's eyes faded as the remedy worked. Her tremors stilled, colour returned to pale skin, pain melted away. The rejuvenate returned life to the Inquisitor and restored her body. Shrugging off the Sororitas's help, Amara Kith took the autoinjector and fitted in another vial. Soon she could flex her hands and legs without ache. Placing the autoinjector in its pouch, the Inquisitor swore. Three vials shattered, their contents soaked into the leather. Fourteen vials of rejuvenate left.

_This will not stop me. I won't let it_. Amara suppressed the sudden vulnerability taking root in her mind.

Closing her eyes, Amara Kith concentrated. She pushed her mind and body to grasp her silence. The aches returned, quiet but insistent. Once again, she drew out her card. Once again, she flipped it in the air. Ursula was silent, watching her mistress's actions. The thin slip of paper landed on a corpse's chest, the points of the six swords leading north from the charnel house. With a wracking cough, using her sword as a prop, Amara Kith struggled to her feet. Sister Ursula collected the lady's bolt pistol, passing it to her without a word. Another sickle-shaped clip went into her boltgun. Sister Ursula ignored the injuries across her body and followed.

* * *

**023.M42**

_**Khermuti**_

He saw the sprite flit over the lower levels of the command deck. The vizier looked away from the _Khermuti_ oculus to follow the being. Skipping in luminous robes past servitors, face hidden by a veil, the sprite wound its way up to the bridge. No one tried to stop the being. Nobody could see it save himself, Osis Pathoth deduced. He looked at the creature that assumed the form of a child. He hadn't seen the sending since Jollana. He was perplexed at the riddle it presented.

In the time he blinked it was standing next to him, seemingly making sport of Pathoth's troubles. Vivid blue eyes lit up while an amused smile, ghoulish looking, crept over the childish face. Pathoth understood what such a grin entailed. The Warp-spawned being beckoned the sorcerer and started to walk away. Resisting fate was pointless; sending's always come with missives not to be ignored.

"Where might you be taking yourself?" asked Kapharon. The captain glowered as the Vizier of the Magus stepped off the command dais. "Lord Ahriman gave orders for you to remain. You can't return to the _Meskhenet_."

"I require a moment of calm." Pathoth swept his hand across the hive of activity, officers barking orders at the slaves. Vespor loomed in the oculus. "The atmosphere is unbalancing my humours. Choler may be your friend, captain, but my sort favour phlegmatic conditions in a quieter atmosphere."

Kapharon laughed at the vizier, giving a wave to dismiss him. The sprite waited for the viceroy in the great hallway that ran down the spine of the _Khermuti_. Seeing the sorcerer, the sprite began to walk with Pathoth following. Together they marched into the deeper recesses of the ship where few ventured unless they had matters within the area. Within the vessel'scorroded bowels residual energy, left from magic rites, seeped into the vessel's metal bones. Arcane messages twisted on the bulkheads, lasted moments before shifting again.

Pathoth regarded the sprite. The sending pantomimed the image of Neferuaat perfectly, from the haughty lift of the chin to the proud stride. He did not engage it in conversation, choosing to let it speak first. It did, saying to the Astartes. "You will have to disappear where we are going."

Carving invisible sigils through the air with slender fingers, the sprite circled Pathoth. For all his incomparable skill the sorcerer only caught the faintest trace of what the spell was. The Immaterium's weave passed into his flesh, blood, and soul. When its work was done the sprite skipped away in childish glee without a word. A minor coven of warlocks passed the vizier. They would have prostrated themselves before his rank any other time; they walked by as though Pathoth never existed.

Their path ended at Ahriman's reclusium doors. Seals guarded the entry, mighty spells even Pathoth would have difficulty undoing. Stopping him from touching the bronze doors, the thing mimicking Neferuaat spoke, "I will do this."

"It is warded," he answered. "You will bring every guard to us if you fail, sprite."

"Nothing can hold one whose magic is used by all."

Osis Pathoth stood aside as the sending laid its hands on the portal. The sprite pushed the elaborate handle, the man's dire warning no value. But his concerns were hollow. Its touch negated Ahriman's spells. No fire or lightning struck them, no alarms sounded. Swinging inward without a sound, the reclusium seemed to invite the two. Hurrying inside, the sending closed the doors behind Pathoth, but he did not lower his guard. Within Ahriman's chambers, all manner of traps were laid for uninvited guests. However powerful the spell-traps were, the sending's power undid them.

It passed freely down the corridor, walked into a scriptoria. A conjured will-'o-wisp cast its light over the chamber, hovering just in front of the entity. It smiled at the vizier when he stepped inside, inspecting the alcoves and shelves crammed thick with books. Walking to a shelf filled with scrolls, the sending selected an elaborately bound scroll. It was handed to Pathoth.

"Do you remember this scroll, Osis Pathoth?"

Turning over the highly wrought casing to look at it, he answered, "From Isfarena."

"Do you wish to remain in the dark to Ahriman's designs?"

"As a drowning man would deny rescue," the viceroy scoffed.

"It is for you to know what Ahriman is planning. Devise the scroll's meaning carefully, commit each word to memory. I will guard you in your task." It no longer spoke like a child. Posture shifting, it returned to the threshold of the reclusium, looking less human, almost primal.

Unrolling the parchment over a table, Pathoth studied the golden text. Sigils glowed and flared across the parchment as they were impressed in the sorcerer's enhanced intellect. A cold dread settled in Pathoth's bones as the truth had set him free. He knew Ahriman would go to great lengths to end his exile, and would attempt what the Isfarena scroll extolled as reality. The evidence held in Pathoth's hands meant Ahriman's scheme was already in motion, and he knew what the endgame was.

Set from the moment he stepped in Jollana Librarium. Fate played too closely to Ahriman's machinations.

Replacing the scroll in its gartle, Pathoth slotted it back on to the shelf. He asked simply, "Why show this to me?"

Again the sprite gave its macabre smile. "Games are so fun. Souls rising and falling under the wheel that turns. One moment they soar with their accomplishments. The next their bones are broken from flying too high where mortals should not dare reach."

"This is an exceedingly long-reaching game." Osis Pathoth chose his next words with care, a whisper in his mind of what he was truly talking to. "It implies that the child born after these events began... she would not comprehend such scheming. The one whose form you always wear."

"Aren't we all puppets dancing to a nameless tune orchestrated long before our births?"

There was a slither in its words, a hiss Pathoth remembered from the Planet of the Sorcerers. What had brought a crimson Primarch to his knees and an Astartes Legion to dust. Leading Pathoth safety from the reclusium, it smirked in the knowledge the Sorcerer of the Red Cyclops would never know what had transpired. For all his knowledge, Ahriman was just another witless puppet.

"What will you do now?" Its voice was innocent for all the grand trickery and change it caused. "You know every memorized symbol, each enunciated word."

They stopped at one of the _Khermuti_ observation decks. Beyond the crystal dome the stars burned in the void. Pathoth felt the spell lift from him, and with it, could read the intense aura from distant Vespor. What would happen? His Primarch and the Thousand Sons; Pathoth had taken oaths before embarking on the mission Magnus gave. He was sworn to protect Magnus's interests. The vizier's chest burned with a fierce protectiveness not only for his gene-sire, but Neferuaat. She was on Vespor, falling deeper in to Ahriman's treacherous scheme. He turned to the sending and saw its form begin to melt into smoke.

"Knowledge chains its owner, mastering those who thought they could master it." Osis Pathoth smiled that vague smile of his. "What I must as decreed by the Great Architect. To protect what is the most important."

"Does that include me? Am I important enough?" The false Neferuaat gazed at the vizier with black sclera and brilliant blue irises. It strained to hold itself to the Materium.

"You are always my first concern, daughter."

It – she – smiled. "Can we read a story tonight about an Eldar prince?"

"Whatever you wish, daughter."

The sending laughed as it dissolved into the aether that created it. The Warp touched the _Khermuti_ as the past, present, and something beyond both mixed, creating missives playing to Tzeentch's scheme. Pathoth cast his mind out beyond the bulkheads of the _Khermuti_, across the distance of the void, to meet with another.

+Bethos, have you received word?+

+My Lord Pathoth,+ came the reply, clear despite the distance between the cruisers. +I have. He says he is moving quickly to meet us.+

+Have him brought to _Meskhenet_ strategium once he arrives.+ Just as his deity was always close at hand, Osis Pathoth knew his dedicated emissary was even closer.

* * *

**023.M42**

**Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

Neferuaat felt the relic's power as a strong gale. It threatened to pluck her from her feet and tear her apart. She rode the Great Ocean's currents by envisioning herself as a leaf on the wind. Fighting against the Warp's power was absurd. Merging with the forces far beyond her control was preferable to fighting them. Her foci – the children – buffeted her mind from the worst. Their eyes bled as small lungs struggled for breath. Atrophied limbs attested to the energy pulled from them for the Dark Mother to remain unharmed. Yet they gladly shouldered the responsibility. With them, Neferuaat balanced her powers to survive the relic's power lashing against Vespor.

"Left," Neferuaat whispered.

Only the Dark Mother saw the path the seer stone created and which led her down lightless halls. When the thread passed through a palace wall, Neferuaat undid the marble and plascrete. Molecules uncoiled, miniature explosions of matter were unmade with a well placed thought. She destroyed gold filigree, priceless paintings, and diamond busts as if they were nothing. Without Pathoth and Ahriman to warn her, Heqet far below her skill level and therefore her deference, the woman did as she pleased.

She held to the golden tendril the seer stone made as it guided them in the palace hallways. A child giggled. Its voice echoed up and down the corridor, everywhere and nowhere at once. The Dark Mother looked to her children. They were silent. Heqet, for all his enhanced capabilities, hadn't heard a thing. The sound came again, accompanied by rapid footsteps.

The aether fluxuated; Neferuaat quickly turned. A little girl stood to her immediate right, half swallowed in the mist and gloom. Blonde hair haloed an emaciated face as intense green eyes regarded the sorceress. In those eyes Neferuaat saw a fire; children screaming for their mothers in fields of cerulean flames. Holding the woman's attention, the little girl raced down the corridor, disappearing into shadows.

"Wait!" shouted Neferuaat.

Rushing after the child, Neferuaat's ears strained to catch a sound of the child over the seer stone's whispering. She drew out her mind's eyes to encompass the entire hive, no matter what it took to find the youngling.

Instead what she heard were the last thoughts of Imperial citizens fighting ravenous daemons. A brother shouted at his siblings to escape as he attacked a Warp beast; a crone hid her grandchildren in a closet as she aimed a laspistol at a splintering door; lovers jumped from Pytren Hive to end the nightmare. The sorceress knew all this and cared not. She only cared to find the child, and she could not. Aether mixed with muddy reality, obscuring the path the child took. Neferuaat turned down a branching corridor on impulse, and it led her into a banquet hall.

The growl of power armour followed Neferuaat. Heqet stood beside her, regarding their surroundings with caution. "What did you see, Dark Mother?"

"A child."

"The children are here." The Thousand Son gestured to the obedient children. "There are no other children in this area of the palace. I would have read their aura. We must continue with the task Ahriman entrusted us."

But Ahriman's orders were suddenly trifling to the sorceress. Waving her hand at Heqet's idiotic words – he had difficulty with dowsing and telepathy, never mind reading auras – Neferuaat walked to the center of the chamber. The seer stone was forgotten. She held her nose as she looked under table clothes and pushed aside chairs. Spoiled foodstuffs littered the carpets, maggots worming in scattered fruit and mouldy bread. Flies buzzed over tainted meat. Growing vexed, Neferuaat wondered how a child could hide from her. About to speak, the air abruptly rushed from her lungs. Agony burned across the psychic link to the children.

Heqet raised his bolter as two mortals entered the hall. A woman in ebon power armour wearing the hateful symbol of the Adepta Sororitas aimed her weapon in challenge. The other, bearing the tri-barred mark of the Inquisition, held no weapon. Heqet smiled without humour. Where the Inquisition tread one was best to be wary, or as the warlock thought, one should attack.

Neferuaat's gaze moved between the two until it remained on the Inquisitor. It resembled the starved child's too well, changed only by age. The sorceress was chilled when she discerned the Inquisitor did not mirror into the Great Ocean. Only blackness surrounded her, drawing in the energy unleashed by the relic.

+Behind me,+ she ordered her children, her breath catching in her throat. Rais defied her orders, choosing to stand in front of Neferuaat with arms raised, ready to protect his benefactor.

+Give the order and I will advance.+ Heqet's thoughts, scattered by the Great Ocean's waves, still reached Neferuaat.

In the tense silence of the chamber the Inquisitor's sharp voice was a whip cracking the air.

"If the Dark Mother submits herself to the Holy Inquisition's authority, the deaths of the remaining heretics will be swift." Amara Kith's words were measured. "The God-Emperor's retribution has come for the Chaos witch."

"I rather not believe your lies," answered Neferuaat. She would not be tyrannised by any Inquisitor. "Move aside or be moved."

Amara Kith scoffed at the psyker. "I don't negotiate. Concede and accept your fate." Very carefully, the Inquisitor rested her hand on the pommel of her sword.

Neferuaat laughed. "Fate? It is the will of Tzee-"

"Whore of the void, how dare you utter such blasphemy?" Ursula spat. "You will die today for your transgressions on Isfarena!"

"Silence!" Amara Kith shouted.

The Inquisitor looked to the children clustered around the witch. Amara Kith could not find one resembling her memories of Katea. Her breathe hitched as pain flashed through her stomach. The afflictions from her encounter with the daemon were nothing against the Alpha-plus psyker now. Amara's un-sight buckled under the constrained power of the sorceress, but did not break.

Heqet snarled, taking fortune in his own hands. The sorcerer advanced. Instantly the Sister of Battle fired. The blessed bolt shell detonated against a kine shield raised by the sorceress. Light blazed in Neferuaat's eyes as she effortlessly halted three more bolt rounds, the silver casings clattering useless to the floor. Confusion reigned.

Heqet barrelled toward his enemies, bolter roaring as inferno bolts sliced through the air. Amara Kith dodged. Overturning one of the banquet tables for the feeble protection it offered, she swore at Ursula's rashness. The inferno bolt smashed through the table as if it were paper, embedded itself in the ground and detonated. Wood and carpet caught fire. Amara Kith's vision narrowed until all she perceived were the emerald flames. As the Thousand Son advanced the Inquisitor found her legs and ran. She drew her sword, firelight reflecting off the blade, and knew she was no match against the warrior's gene-enhanced strength. Her servo-skull flew at the corrupted Astartes to give its mistress precious seconds to escape.

Ensnaring the automation in telekinetic iron bands, Heqet closed his hand into a fist. The servo-skull chirped once, its single red eye flashing as it overloaded, and then dropped lifeless to the ground.

Ursula was there, engaging Heqet, causing him to break off from killing the Inquisitor. Her aiming reticule locked on to the Chaos Space Marine and with a scream, the Sister of Battle let her faith become her shield. Whether his battle prowess was a hundred years or a thousand, she did not let that stop her virtuous attack. Her bolter grew hot in her hand. Two bolts impacted on elaborate sapphire armour, dents left in the ceramite. The rest were detonated mid-flight by the Thousand Son. He decided not to fully scorn the female who charged him. The brawl might be educational; Heqet had never fought the Adepta Sororitas before.

Leaving the duel and fire behind her, Amara Kith searched in the swirling mist for the Dark Mother. Finding the sorceress, Amara Kith tightened her grip on her sword and charged. Bleeding her vitality into her un-sight, the Inquisitor pushed aside the children, hearing the heretic's shriek as nothingness surrounded her. Amara had been waiting for this moment, her whole existence dedicated to this single battle.

Stumbling backward, Neferuaat felt ice raced over her body to stab at her heart. Hooks embedded themselves in her soul and pulled. Raising her arms to ward off the Inquisitor's sword, she blindly dodged. But the Inquisitor circled her, tormenting the sorceress. Neferuaat's vision turned red, blood running from her eyes.

"Surrender to the God-Emperor!" Amara burned through her ability, feeling it eating into her flesh and bones, tearing away muscles and deteriorating her heart.

Blood clotted in Neferuaat's throat. She choked; spat it at the Inquisitor's face. Amara Kith threw herself at the sorceress, catching her robes as they both tumbled and rolled over the carpet. Dropping her sword, Amara Kith swung her right fist at the woman's face. Crimson flecked her white gloves. Howling in pain, Neferuaat raked her nails across the Inquisitor's face. Her skin burned and cracked open under the dead space. She had never experienced a purer sensation of pain than now. Her powers failed her. Osis Pathoth's lessons were nothing in the face of this soulless Inquisitor set on tearing out her heart.

"Help me!" Neferuaat shrieked.

Heqet heard the Dark Mother's screams, but could not assist her. He fought a woman too stubborn to die and too dense to know that she would lose. The battle maiden was faster than he had thought, shouldering off his attacks with damned prayers. Her left leg was injured from a glancing blow, the armour servos sheared. She could no longer run. Heqet wanted to murder the Sister of Battle with grace, but the Dark Mother needed him. He would have to settle for simple brutality.

He reached into the Immaterium, but as a tide is pulled by celestial bodies greater than itself, the aether drew away from him. He threw out skeins of thought, pulling the aether back while sweat poured from his brow, but it slipped through the warlock's net. The kine shield protected him flickered, disappeared. Ursula did not hesitate. She crashed into the Chaos Space Marine and with a strength born of desperation, thrust the Sarissa-blade into the thin armour between Heqet's neck seals and gorget. She wrenched, snapping the blade from the bolter. Firing at the exposed point in the power armour, Ursula emptied her clip into the warrior's skull.

The children, disoriented and stumbling in the mist when the psychic link was broken, heard Neferuaat's shrieks. Without hesitation they raced to help, careless of their safety. Rais grabbed a candlestick from the floor and swung it with all his strength at the Imperial bitch's head. Pain bloomed in Amara Kith's skull. Neferuaat kicked the Inquisitor off her as her connection with the Great Ocean returned, crawling away as blood dripped from her blistered flesh.

Four pairs of hands dragged the Inquisitor across the floor. Amara Kith could not focus on her un-sight. She strained against the unholy strength the children possessed, froze when she saw one child's devilish smile. Rais lifted the candlestick again. The metal felt good in his hands. He would bludgeon the Imperial servant and her hateful creed here and now. If only Klauss could see him. Who was a snivelling baby now? The complex rage he held against the Imperium consumed the boy.

A _crump!_ – sounded in the dark. Amara Kith felt the impact as the bolt shell found the child and chunks of raw, red meat fell on top of her. The candlestick clattered to the floor. Three pairs of hands released the Inquisitor as the children scattered like birds.

Ursula limped toward her mistress. Her black armour pitted, paint scratched, the machine spirit rasping in protest, but she was alive. The Thousand Son's corpse lay behind her, its head spattered across the carpet. Targeting the children in the fog, Ursula fired. They were damned beyond redemption, consorting with dark powers. Her shell caught a sullied brat in the back. Ursula whispered another prayer as her aiming reticule found another heretic. They fell before the Dark Mother, mouths gasping with their features frozen in mid-scream. The mist curled over their bodies to mask the grisly sight.

Ursula kept her boltgun pointed at the Dark Mother as Amara Kith used her rejuvenate. Several vials were injected into her body, the counteragent working frenetically to undo the damage. Retrieving her sword, the Inquisitor rose uncertainly to her feet. Half the banquet hall was burning, the sorcerous flames turning everything it touched to ash.

"Sister Ursula, we'll-"

A thin keening cry filled the air, drowning out Amara's voice. It belonged more to a wounded animal than the human throat who uttered it. Eyes blazing, the Dark Mother shredded the veil she wore in claw-like hands. It was as if a gathering storm, moments from breaking, had taken all the air from the room, only to unleash itself with that much greater vengeance. The temperature plummeted as the floor under the Dark Mother cracked.

The sorceress levitated, a nimbus of blue light haloing her twisted features. Neferuaat's emotional control fell away, experiencing what she had never been trained to handle: grief. Her wild shrieks reverberated off the walls, thrown out of time and in to other realities. Above her the stained glass ceiling imploded, raining down jagged coloured glass. In the Immaterium something responded, and its voice was heard across Pytren Hive.

Coalescing from the mist and aether to answer her summons, the Screamer circled the psyker. Slit-like nostrils flared, fangs in its mandible-like mouth flexed in anticipation of devouring soft innards. Neferuaat linked her mind to the daemon, delivering one simple message. The Screamer howled. Tucking great wings in, it plummeted, raced to its victims. Amara Kith slashed at the Screamer as she dodged. Sliding under a table, the Inquisitor assessed the situation as her mind still screamed at the impossibility of it.

"Katea…"

Amara Kith's resolve to end the battle faltered. Charred wheat fields replaced a banquet hall. She only heard children screaming in cerulean flames. Numb shock filled the Inquisitor at the magnitude of her revelation. She knew her lessons: Alpha-plus psykers were mentality unstable, their substantial will a threat to everyone. For the sorceress to not call more daemons, greater ones, to her side, Amara Kith would have to subdue the witch, and fast.

With a quick prayer, Amara threw herself from cover and raced for the Dark Mother. She would not kill Katea, but she could wound her. Neferuaat tilted her head to the side, saw the Inquisitor coming. Lightning arced as flames spiralled down. Amara Kith wrenched the silence from her core – feeling the rejuvenate's work undone in an instant – and shielded herself as azure fire washed over her. Heat melted the floor like wax, set the remaining carpet and furnishings blazing. Lighting tore into the ceiling to bring down the chandeliers.

Hysteria scrabbled in her mind at the fire, was fought back as Amara Kith struggled to hold her deathly quiet. She spared no thought to anything other than her final goal.

"Milady!" rang Ursula's voice.

She saw the Inquisitor's suicidal charge from the corner of her eye while she fired her bolter. Grappling with the Screamer, Ursula was knocked to the ground. The Screamer dove in to lock its jaws around her throat. Red warning runes lit up across her visor as hot breath filled her nostrils. Ursula bunched her muscles, pressed her feet against the daemon's gut. The bones in her injured leg grating, Ursula bit her tongue to hold back the pain. The woman heaved with all her strength and threw the daemon from her.

Scrabbling in the rubble, the woman found her boltgun. Three bolts burned white-hot in its chest. Howling, the Screamer flew up as ichor blood spattered the floor. Exhausting the rest of her clip, Ursula reloaded her last one and kept firing.

Amara Kith pressed closer to Katea, darting aside as sections of the roof collapsed, praying her un-sight would be enough. Leaping at the sorceress, Amara Kith's gravity arrestor was not enough to bring her within reach. Snarling in rage as the edge of the deathly silence touched her, Neferuaat kept her distance from the hateful Inquisitor. Another barrage of white lightning forked down, terminating short of the Inquisitor.

Blasted chunks of marble hit Amara Kith, jarring her concentration. But she kept her ability at its fullest, refusing to heed her body's warnings. Every step forward was met with balefire and lightning. Ursula's battle cries sounded far away. But if she could press her advantage, if she was brave enough—

A lance of agony blossomed in Amara's heart. Her nullility trembled as her lungs constricted. Fires raging in the banquet hall robbed Amara from drawing any deep breath. Forced to one knee, the Inquisitor weakly looked up as her cousin stood ready to slay her. Neferuaat's unchecked emotions fused in a cold fury. Envisioning the Inquisitor being skinned alive, the Dark Mother flicked her hand. Although she could not touch the Inquisitor, the laws of the Materium still bound objects. The Sarissa-blade lodged in the stump of Heqet's neck pulled free.

Two bolts caught the Screamer near its mandibles, blasting flesh from its form. Another holy bolt ripped a chunk of muscle from the Screamer's wing. Shrieking, the daemon threw itself at the Sororitas. Sister Ursula aimed, waited for her reticule to align, and fired. The final sanctified round blasted apart the daemon's chest. Writhing on the ground, the daemon melted away as the other had. Ursula cast her gaze over the hall to find the Inquisitor. Forcing her body to move, she scrambled over the debris and flames to get to Amara Kith.

Neferuaat spun the blade with her mind, rotating it faster and faster. In the same moment, wrecked tables and slabs of rubble were lifted in the air. The Dark Mother telekinetically threw the blazing furnishings with all her psychic might. Ripping chunks from the ceiling, she sent them hurtling toward her foes. The wicked blade picked up speed, lost in the turmoil.

Stone crashed to the floor. A chair struck Ursula's back, sending her sprawling. Rubble slammed into Amara's torso, snapping bones. Then, as if releasing a feather on the wind, Neferuaat let the blade go. Amara registered the blade's movement almost too late. She twisted her own body aside, broken bones and torn muscles protesting.

She lurched. Fell to the ground as plaster showered over her.

Severed below her shoulder, her left arm was caught in the hungry flames. Amara watched her dark blood spurt over the carpet. Silence rang in her ears; silence claimed her tongue; silence consumed her thoughts. Ursula was beside her then, a black angel emerging from the flames. Amara Kith did not hear herself scream as Ursula applied a tourniquet.

Taking the Inquisitor's sword in her free hand, Ursula threw Amara's right arm over her shoulders. "To the Stormbird!" the Sister of Battle shouted.

Pulling the Inquisitor to her feet, they fled as the hall's roof came crashing down. Ursula's sacred armour lent her the strength to push through the pandemonium. Amara Kith clung to the stillness, the only thing she could trust. Images came in flashes of consciousness. Katea floated inside a pillar of fire; mist curling over her and Ursula; decaying palace walls engulfed in flames. There was a voice telling her that it was not the time to sleep.

A black shroud fell over her vision and she lost consciousness.


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**023.M42**

**Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche**** sector**

She fixed what she could. Still, Kel was not a Tech-Priest and hadn't trained on the Stormbird long enough to know its quirks and traits. She was unsure about the vessel's many sub-systems and routines, but certain that the Stormbird would never fly again after this mission. She did what she could to make the craft void worthy, waiting for the Inquisitor and Sister of Battle to return. Gripping a cumbersome las-welder in gloved hands, the pilot sealed one of the many rent, covering it with apoloxy foam. That finished, Kel counted the remaining tears and ruptures with a grimace. Only three hundred and forty-two left.

The plaza the Stormbird harboured in was quiet. With the ship's blazing lights the heavy brume covering the hive city did not seem nearly as ominous. The light also served to keep the spawn away. Under the harsh white illumination Kel stomped over the vessel's hull, comforted by the light. Having been on many other planets in the company of Rogue Traders and cursed Astartes, and knowing each planet hid its own horrors, none held the simple and terrifying danger Vespor did for Kelvenia. She had nonchalantly left to fix the Stormbird's hull, downplaying her fears to Dram. Maintaining her bravado in front of the ex-Guardsman was critical, who, unperturbed by the Warp devouring Vespor, was scanning for off-world communication signals. Now as she was outside and exposed, her bluster weakened. Dram was in the Stormbird, safe behind a meter-thick plate of armour while Kel was outside, without a weapon and only the lights

Excited shrieks sounded in front of her. A cold sweat broke across her brow as Kel moved for the las-welder very carefully, focusing her eyes into the night. The soupy clouds roiled across the plaza, upset by something moving within them. A low, resonating growl was punctuated by a high-pitched hoot, this time coming from behind her. Grabbing the heavy torch, Kel shone the powerful beam into the vapour. A feathery tail whip-snaked through the beam's light, then was gone in the thick fog.

A hoarse squawk echoed in the dark air. Three screeches returned the cry. Kel turned to her right, torch raised and body tensed. She saw nothing, but heard the dry hiss of scales across the stone. To her left another squawk followed by a rattling click. The sound made Kel think of a bird, a very large reptilian bird. Her mind flashed back to the monstrosity that had nearly ripped apart the Stormbird. The las-welder would not be able to stop that. Squawking came once more to her left, a clicking bark following the last note. The half-breed knew a call for support no matter the language, just as she knew with a sickening feeling that she was being hunted. Her hands were damp, and cold beads of perspiration rolled down her back.

Very carefully the pilot gathered up her toolkit, slung it over her shoulder, and slid down the Stormbird as discreetly as possible. She felt a hundred pair of inhuman eyes tracking her descent. Dropping to the ground on the vessel's far side, Kel's gear clanked as she raced for the Stormbird's ramp, legs pistoning as she ran for safety. Dry scales rustled across the plaza. Throwing the las-wielder over her shoulder, not sure she hit anything but praying she had, the half-breed stormed up the ramp and into the carrier bay. Slamming the mechanism shut, she cried out, "Something's out there, Dram!"

"What is it?" Dram's heavy boots thudded down the steps; he moved faster than Kel would have credited him. Dram pointed his hellpistol at the closed ramp. "What the hell followed you, Squints?"

"I don't know!" Kel was near hysterical as bestial sounds filtered through the metal hull. A heavy _thud!_ – and a significant portion of the Stormbird's starboard buckled. The craft creaked as Warp spawn crept over it.

Kel pointed to Dram. "Go outside and see what it is. You have the weapon. You're a Guardsman."

Dram snorted. "Ex-Guardsman, and I'm not about to go outside." His eyes roved over the interior of the Stormbird and perceived probable entry points. "Don't think Guardsmen are stupid, Kel. Some of the best minds get stuck in the trenches while the idiots play commander."

"We have to leave," Kel's voice pitched higher as baying howls cut over her words. "Get out of here, fly around Pytren Hive. We'll die if we stay!"

Dram punched the half-breed in the shoulder. "We stay until the Inquisitor returns. That was her order. We'll follow the order no matter how mindless it was."

"They could be dead in there," Kel attempted. "They haven't called on the vox-comm. You resisted Kith's plan from the start – I remember you staring her down. You know if we stay we'll die. I can pilot the Stormbird away; we can make up a story-"

Dram rounded on Kel. "We _wait_, Squints. I've served under brain-dead officers before, but I'm not a coward and neither are you." She saw the red in the man's eyes, the silent challenge, and realised Dram was not as unshaken by Vespor's horrors as she thought. Kel backed down. She, fixed her eyes on the grated floor as the sounds outside grew in pitch and frenzy. Suddenly the Stormbird violently rocked to one side, tilting at a drunken angle. The two Throne agents crashed into the bay's harnesses, items clattering to the floor. Dram swore as he careened toward the far side of the hull, grabbing the webbing on a harness and held tight, arm muscles bunching. Kel slammed onto the deck and skidded across the metal until she thudded against a row of heavy storage crates. The sickening motions finally stopped, the vessel set back in place. A quiet more dreadful than before filled the space, pierced by a horrid shriek of metal tearing from metal.

"That'd be the gun turrets," Dram noted. "A lot of help they were." He fumbled for a stimm-cig, lit it, and inhaled deep. In a galaxy of uncertainties, the one assurance he held in his hands was the calming effects of nicotine. And by hell it calmed him.

Kel hobbled over, her right cheek swelling from where she had fallen. "I have to tell you Dram, I hate this place." She darted a nervous glance as claws ticked across the roof. "I'm in a hostile environment. I'm completely unprepared and surrounded by things who want to kick my ass. It's like being back in the schola!"

"How'd you manage to survive the schola?"

"I ran away." Frank honesty gazed from brown eyes at Dram. Kel's bravado had fled, her fear and hysteria bubbling just under her flesh, eyes darting too fast, long-limbed arms twitching. Dram knew the signs of someone ready to run without thinking things through. He had seen enough of that in his time with the Dreadhaven 17th. Without thinking, Dram handed Kel a serrated combat knife from his belt, its monomolecular edge a burnished steel-blue. He had spent hours sharpening it before aboard the _Iridescent Blade_.

"You'll get through this, Squints. We'll get through it. Just don't panic and stay next to me."

* * *

The only similarity the treasure house held to the rest of Vespor was the fog. Inside the building it lay thick on the floor, pooled in corners, clawed up walls and seeped through niches. Progress was slow for the trio who had battled their way up from the governor's palace. Margorach refused to listen to Gren when he insisted they rest, and still refused to heed them. Weak mon-keigh, they knew not what each precious moment wasted meant. Their exhaustion would be the death of them all, Margorach wanted to say. Even he was tired yet he pushed himself beyond his limit. Now as they stood before the governor's treasure house, he looked at the two humans with disdain. How could such a race consider themselves masters of the galaxy?

"We move as Faolchú and do not halt." Those were Margorach's words before entering the relic house; he said no more once they crossed the threshold.

Inside the Eldar's concentration was strung taut. Vigilant, he paused before every branching corridor, refusing to let them advance until he ascertained their safety. The Death Jester kept the knowledge that Shadowseer Carrenad's spells were unravelling at an alarming rate and the source of most of his concern. It would not be much longer until they were easy prey for spawn swimming in the mist. His armour's runes burnt his flesh as their safeguard faded. Each motion took great effort, every step a fight against the Warp's psychic undertow and relic pushing against him. Pride kept Margorach from showing the strain.

Sabine pressed her back to the relic house's wall, watching the Inquisitor and Eldar flash hand-signals to the other, covering each other as they advanced down the hallway. Broken glass littered the floor and crunched under every step. They were a well-oiled machine working in tandem, hauling along a third wheel. Not for the first time did she feel out of place, her years spent in retirement too full of frivolities and not enough physical exertion.

"Governor Atomy's hobby is extensive," Gren whispered as they passed a vault of antiquated weapons. Vapour curled around a glass case holding gunpowder firearms.

"My husband's pastime is killing Vespor," Sabine snapped back. Wiping sweat from her neck, she glanced down to reaffirm she walked on a solid floor. The mist gave the appearance they passed through an endless sea of clouds, the effect unsettling. Sabine rarely visited the treasure house even in better times, content to leave Atomy the space he desired, yet the once familiar route now felt different. She opened her mouth to speak when the Eldar shouted, "Watch out!"

Margorach's warning came too late as a sudden wave of white vapour crashed over them. Cool tendrils brushed Sabine's face, tugged her hair, pulled at her ragged skirts. The noblewoman found herself alone when the wave passed and her instincts hammered at her. Sabine's laspistol snapped up, aiming into the murk while she scanned her surroundings. She found no sign of the Inquisitor or his Eldar ally, only the mist.

Sabine called in a loud whisper, "Inquisitor? Alien?" Her heart thumped painfully against her ribcage. Once she would have prayed to a God-Emperor that protected all his citizens and their families. Now she only dealt in the tangible, what her senses told her. She whirled to her left when she heard a whisper. "Inquisitor Gren? Eldar, show your face."

Her finger millimetres from the trigger, Sabine kept the wall to her left and advanced. She passed tapestries where images moved slowly toward her with arms raised. Sabine feigned indifference when the lips of a painting moved as though about to impart some terrible secret. When rock grated against rock, she convinced herself the marble busts were not turning to look at her. There came the sound of feet. Her heart soared as she made out a dim outline in the mist moving closer. The light from the ceiling lumens played over the figure and Sabine's hope fled. A memory wearing a dead companion's flesh stood before her.

Sabine's gut clenched. She hoarsely whispered, "Ivan."

"You let him burn me." Patches of blackened skin flaked off a scalp of mottled scarlet and burst veins. Encased in armour so badly damaged – Ivan had worn grey carapace the last time Sabine saw him – the exterior's markings were melted beyond recognition. The grotesque memory snarled, "You and Stym let him burn me, you bitch. You let him burn me!"

Sabine raised her hands. "Ivan, I couldn't stop him! Saeger couldn't be stopped! Stym and I tried to-"

"We were friends! Atomy and you stabbed us all in the back! You let us die on the platform, and those that survived, Saeger finished. We weren't corrupted!" Each word dripped hatred and rage. The wraith howled, "We weren't tainted! We served the Imperium as faithfully as the next man!"

"Forgive us! We didn't mean-"

The phantom barrelled forward as fire raced up its body. The scent of charred flesh and burnt blood filled the air. Sabine shrieked and fired her laspistol. The bolts passed through the wraith with no effect, impacting into the far wall. Scrambling backward, all self-control lost, Sabine froze as something rushed past her, scintillating crystals confusing her vision.

The Death Jester stood between her and the spectre, scythe cutting the fiend's blackened skin. Gren grabbed Sabine's arm, pulling the woman up. Margorach fired his shuriken cannon and virulent acid encased the burning wraith. What would have put down a mortal foe did little to the thing that was never mortal from the start. Shrugging off the Harlequin's attack, the wraith's form began twisting and changing. Bones snapped, remoulded, as flesh tore to accommodate its new frame. Sulphur replaced the stench of burnt flesh.

"What's your plan?" The Inquisitor's wraithbone runes pulsed against the neverborn's aura. Margorach watched the daemon advance; he knew its presence was due to his foolishness and rashness. Unshielded by wraithbone runes, Sabine's fears had been easy for any spawn to latch on to. It had followed them into the treasure house, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. Margorach cursed at his stupidity.

"Sport and merriment join hand in hand, Inquisitor Gren. I will keep the enemy here. Find the governor and bind the relic if you want to end this madness."

As the Inquisitor and woman ran further into the treasure house, Margorach felt the daemon's corruption psyche against his chest as a physical weight. He brandished his heavy weapon at the daemon as frost patterned the floor.

The fiend laughed. "Margorach of the Harlequins, you look unwell! You thought me bested in the Webway on your way to Vespor, how jesting!" Its sickle-shaped talons, sharper than anything in the Materium, caught the lumens light.

There was no hesitation as Margorach struck with the strength of Vaul. Sliding under the daemon's grasp with his scythe a blur of metal, the blade gouged across the daemon's flank. Margorach circled and rushed the neverborn, blurred movement replacing conscious thought. He danced, each movement precise, each cut sure.

Shrieking, the daemon threw itself at the Harlequin and snagged Margorach's cloak. Tossed through the air, the Death Jester leapt mid-flight, flip-belt adjusting his fall. His feet contacted with the ceiling and Margorach pushed off. He battered his left shoulder against the daemon's face. What might have been bone crunched in the grim silence of their battle.

It was a losing battle; the daemon's anima lashed Margorach's psyche, leeching power from him. Infused by the Warp, the daemon's speed and strength began to surpass the Harlequin's. His soul a timpani stretched further and further, Margorach battled for the time Gren needed to lock away the relic. Margorach's scythe cut the daemon's torso as mirthful laughter sounded in his mind. Too slow; a talon splintered Margorach's helmet. Stumbling back as the rotting stink filled his nostrils, Margorach's vision swam as he threw away his ruined helm. The runes burned his body as the Eldar's mind darkened.

Letting emotions overtake him as none of the Rillietann ever would, Margorach wildly attacked. In the raging whirlwind of wild blows, defence and counterattack, Margorach found calm. The scythe swung, parried, and embedded itself into the hollow neverborn. He depressed the trigger and Margorach the Death Jester prayed to Cegorach for victory against arduous Fate and fortune.

Gren did not think of Margorach's chances. He focused on the mission and Vespor's survival. Sabine stumbled alongside him through the fog. She tugged his arm to guide him along but her steps were uncertain.

"We are lost," Gren's voice shook with frustration. "We're lost in this damned maze!"

"Stym! Where are you?" As if waiting for Sabine's question, the mist rolled back to reveal Subsector Governor Atomy.

Eldritch power lashed Atomy's body, emanating from a simple piece of metal twinned round bloodless fingers. It was draining his form to a dry husk while hues without name haloed the governor. It was the unchecked essence of the relic striving to break through the Materium's veil. Sitting innocuously on the desk was the lockbox, the only thing capable of sealing the artefact's powers. Gren recalled the knowledge Shadowseer Carrenad imparted to him about the Vaenosis. The governor seemed to sense the Inquisitor's intent, for his eyes locked on the man. Something less than human but far more powerful calculated the intruders marching into its abode.

"Don't touch the relic," Gren whispered when Sabine moved toward her husband. "It is… sentient."

"Why?" Sabine hissed back.

"Are you a latent psyker?" Sabine shook her head. "Then don't touch it unless you want to become the same as Atomy."

"Not for you." Atomy's voice was a low, rasping trill. "Keep away. We keep it safe for one worthy. You are not they." The man's head jerked back painfully and Sabine saw the stark terror in Atomy's eyes; a man caught in a fight for his body, a man who abhorred violence on any level.

"He's in there! Atomy's there!"

"It's a ruse! Atomy's dead!"

A being coalesced from the mist, hunched and shivering as its tongue lolled from the vertical mouth bisecting its face, tasting the air. Needlepoint teeth pushed up from snapping, pus-filled gums. Twin tails whipped out along its back as its pincers snapped the air before it. It was a canine straining at the leash, quivering to be set free. Atomy's voice croaked, "End them."

The daemon sprang into the air, landing in front of Sabine. Claws sliced past, and Sabine felt blood trickle down her face, yet she remained frozen in place. The daemon's lips peeled back and she looked at the monster's fangs. Light flashed. A bright pulse jarred her muddled thoughts, and a deafening crack resounded in her ears. Ozone burned. Sabine was pushed aside by Inquisitor Gren, who fired his hellgun once more.

"Get to Atomy!" he shouted, breath pluming in the chilling cold. "Don't touch the relic!" The rest of the Inquisitor's warning was lost as the daemon's tails lashed out, bringing the Inquisitor to the ground. Gren fired a shaky volley at the relic's guardian, praying it hit. The daemon's barbed tails whipped down, cracking through Gren's armour. A copper tang overlaid the sulphur stench. Wraithbone runes flared as the protective wards were undone. Choking back a scream, Gren thumbed the hellgun's highest setting, and took aim even though he knew at such close range he could be incinerated too. Backpack thrumming, a red glow encasing the hellgun's reinforced barrel, Gren fired point-blank as the neverborn pounced.

Sabine ran to her husband's side, cursing Inquisitor Gren, cursing Saeger, cursing her very existence. Sabine reached out, grabbed on to Stym's forearms, yelled and pleaded at her husband. Sabine cried, "We saved Vespor once! Don't let Ivan's and the others sacrifice be for nothing!"

Through the murky storm, Stym Atomy's consciousness heard Sabine. It listened over the roaring voice of a behemoth who created and destroyed as any god pleased. In a place beyond Pytren Hive, Atomy fought. For once true moment in his life, Stym Atomy defied the greater powers of the cosmos and prevailed. He dropped the relic as the voice inside him screeched, "Not worthy for us! Not worthy!"

The artefact made a deep kneeling note when it impacted on the floor. Its form changed, transmuting and flowing across the marble and mist. Sabine scrambled after the relic. Without the relic, Atomy's body and mind were unprotected and weakened, Atomy could not defend himself as an inchoate being flowed into him from the mist. It overtook the man's body as his mind was still lucid, and forced his limbs to move. The man staggered out of his chair, throwing himself at Sabine.

Atomy crawled over Sabine, once-loving hands wrapping around her throat. "Kill me!" Atomy spat out, aware even if he could not control his actions. Blood mixed with sputum dribbled from his mouth. "Please," he gasped, "kill- me!"

Sabine's eyes watered, her vision dimming. Weeping, she levelled her laspistol at Atomy, fired a single lasbolt. Atomy juddered violently, skull collapsing in a sickening spray of blood and brains. From the bloody stump squirmed thick black maggots. Sabine rolled away, gasping for breath, her face spattered with blood and tears.

From the corner of her eyes, Sabine saw the relic move. Before she could move, to throw that hated object from the treasure house, Gren stood in her path. Bloodied, his skin gouged and stark white, Gren held the relic's case, and caught the source of Vespor's troubles. The whitish-green lockbox shut over the skittering, morphing relic. It was done so easily that Sabine laughed, a hoarse, ugly sound clashing against the woman's pained visage.

A scream heard only to those psy-touched reverberated across the planet. Bound again, the artefact no longer held a link to the Immaterium. Without its source, the aether-charged vapour fled, sinking into Pytren Hive, the Warp storm far above weakening.

"You look as though you have been to the gates and back." Margorach shambled down the hall toward Gren and Sabine, bruised and bloodied, but alive. "Did your Emperor bring you back to life?"

"A great amount of painkillers did," answered Gren, and grimaced, "and faith." Carefully holding the lockbox in one hand, he pressed the other to his abdomen. He on Terra certainly kept the daemon from striking anything vital, but an apothecary would be indispensable to mend his wound.

"Will you die before we return to the troupe?" Gren saw the scepticism on Margorach's face.

"I'll live. Praise your pantheon you survived, friend."

"What that a vortex grenade should become a deity. Cegorach would enjoy that, I'm certain." The sharp mirth left the Death Jester when he saw the governor's corpse. Margorach looked to Sabine. "I'm sorry."

"He did well at the end," Sabine answered. She spoke brightly, the forced cheer evident. "For the first time in his life, Stym did something truly courageous. He always wanted to do something brave like the heroes in the books. Stym was very fond of those tales."

Too many emotions swam in the air. Assailed by the woman's loss, Margorach slung his shuriken cannon over his good shoulder and extended his hand, palm up. Gren wordlessly passed the relic to the race charged with its protection, and Margorach held in his hands a treasure left from the War of the Gods. He pocketed the relic in his cloak, his fatigue and aches temporarily forgotten. He had done it. Now it was only a matter of returning to his troupe alive.

"My lady." Sabine looked up when Gren spoke. "Vespor will need your presence if the Lord Inquisitor of this sector is here." He held out his hand. With the grace only a noblewoman could manage, Lady Sabine D'Ebanne sat next to her husband's body, one hand resting protectively on his shoulder.

"I will stay. I thank you both on behalf of Vespor. The survivors will be able to mend the rest, under what I am sure will be the careful watch of Lord Saeger." She smiled and brushed a lock of white hair from her face. Gren saw the silver flash of a laspistol in her elegant hand. "If you see Selina… tell her to keep safe."

Inquisitor Gren knew the gleam in her eye; others in his service showed the same when the burden became too much. Gren bowed once, the gesture heavy. He had stolen Sabine's child when he had been Saeger's pawn, too young to comprehend his actions. Nothing remained for Sabine now. "Safe travels, my lady."

Margorach and Gren left the relic house, the Inquisitor rapidly thinking what his next step would be to procure Vespor's safety against Saeger's judgement. The forms of Warp beings seemed vague, cutting in and out of the waning mist, their once angular edges smeared and indistinct. A voracious spawn screeched, charging when it saw the two souls. With a casual flick of his weapon, Margorach killed it.

"The filth cannot hold their forms for much longer. We must return to the portal and the troupe."

Margorach's pace was quick, chromatic crystals ricocheting in his wake. The Eldar caught the sound of a single laspistol discharging behind them; Gren convinced himself it was nothing but the howling wind.

* * *

The unhallowed fires of the Immaterium did not touch them. Roaring downward, Warp flames smelted precious metals and liquefied mirrors under its touch. Marble turned to putty. Corpses vaporised from the heat before the flames touched flesh. Yet the inferno did not touch the Lord Inquisitor or his surviving coterie.

Saeger drove his will through the psy-active crystal of his sword. He reached out, his mind touching each particle of poisoned aether, each nucleus of energy burning in the Warp flames. Struggling against Ahriman's control over the inferno, Saeger's mind burned under the mental onslaught. He could not dispel the fire but could divert its course. Saeger commanded the magic-born blaze away with prodigious effort, the wave breaking over the Imperials in a surge of scarlet and crimson.

The blazing light that was the relic winked out of existence. Immediately the chaotic pull and ebb of the Immaterium died, the seas calmed, and Ahriman lost command of the inferno to the Lord Inquisitor. The mortal directed the Warp fire to the edge of the Hall of Mirrors, letting the flames gutter and die. The arch-sorcerer took a step back and attempted to rein in the dwindling psychically saturated air. The aether fluxed and shivered and what Ahriman gathered slithered from his fingers like fistfuls of sand.

A flash of light heralded another teleportation; the shockwave brought with it a growing void. Ravenous waves of emptiness washed over the Hall of Mirrors. Deliverance from the _Salva Nos_ had arrived. Rising from a crouch, the Culexus assassin surveyed the enemies, readying the animus speculum. Fixating on the greatest threat, the Culexus charged Ahriman.

Noph's panicked voice filtered over the vox-comm. "We must flee, Lord Ahriman! I cannot sense the Great Ocean!"

Across the shortening space, the Culexus devoured the chaotic aether. Ahriman gathered what remaining power he could to create a telekinetic cyclone. Hurling the tempest into the Hall of Mirrors and Culexus' path, Ahriman commanded the Rubricae. In unison, the nine ancient Rubricae withdrew from the ruined hall.

"Use what time you have!" commanded Ahriman. Then the grand sorcerer was gone and Noph stood alone as the cyclone howled overhead.

Not breaking stride, the Culexus dove through the psy-charged windstorm. The assassin burst through the other side, lacerated but whole, to find the Chaos Space Marine waiting. The Culexus' dead aura had protected it from the worst of the psychic attack. Noph's psychic senses were crippled, and he tasted blood as it dribbled from his nose and eyes. The Thousand Son was firing, ensorcelled bolt rounds cracking sharply over the keening wind. His aim was now as unskilled as a novice, the shots went wide with the Imperial agent – _she_, the warlock coolly noted – dodging effortlessly. Fluid ebony and ivory span past the corrupt Astartes' guard. The Culexus's right hand reached out to graze the Thousand Son's baroque helm. Noph died.

Careening through the Hall of Mirrors, snapping up glass and marble detritus, the cyclone tore forward in its uncontrolled path. Saeger threw himself to the ground as the storm broke over the remaining Celestine squads and Inquisitorial storm troopers. With unrelenting fury the tempest mashed those unable to find shelter into the floor and walls, pulverizing bone and stripping flesh from those caught too close to the whirlwind. With its fury spent the cyclone died away, leaving few survivors.

Saeger heaved himself upright, cumbersome in power armour heavily damaged by the cyclone. His armour's spirit registered a compromised power pack and ruptures to critical power cords. Unable to continue the chase, Saeger nodded to the Culexus. She perched atop the dead Chaos Space Marine's back and waited for orders. Under her nullification the sorcerers would be sheep before the wolf.

"By His light are the foes of the Imperium purged," Saeger rasped from a blistered throat. "He that is unjust and polluted, let him be so still unto the grave."

The Culexus darted under the triumphal arch and into Pytren Hive's corridors, led on by Ahriman's psychic spoor. And the sheep knew the wolf followed. As the Rubricae double-timed synchronically, Ahriman scoured the muddied aether to situate Neferuaat. He could not engage the Culexus, only run, and would not leave behind the one being critical to his plans. The foolish woman was in the governor's palace, hers the only soul Ahriman sensed, and the sorcerer questioned what stopped her from acquiring the relic. Pathoth was correct; her mortal frailties were her weakness. Ahriman's frustration to the advisor's words were only matched by his determination to survive Vespor.

Ahriman found Neferuaat in a ruined banquet hall. Flecks of unnameable colours hovered in the air, a dying aurora borealis. Seated in the middle of the devastation was the Dark Mother, clutching the mangled body of an urchin, muttering wildly to herself. She was half-aware of Ahriman's arrival, looking up at the approaching Rubric Marines with a smile on her corpse coloured lips.

"Please be quiet, the children are sleeping." Ahriman watched the Alpha-plus psyker lose herself in another reality. Bloodied tears tracked down her ashen face. Her psycurium veil was missing, and that alone unsettled Ahriman. "It was so loud in here before. Look at the mess my children made. I will have to tell Ranoehk to clean this up."

Ahriman did not have time to coddle Neferuaat or her delusions. Aetherically scanning her body, he came across a dark cancer rooted in Neferuaat's mind, caught off-guard by its being. Her malaise was not from her mêlée in the banquet hall, for the roots were twisted too deep, too rooted in the crevices of her mind, to be recent. This was an older sickness cunningly hidden. Ahriman deduced who cloaked Neferuaat's condition from him for so long.

Neferuaat pulled at the dead child's hand. "Rais, wake up. Klauss will want to see you."

"Enough of this." Batting away the corpse, Ahriman pulled the woman to her feet. "We are returning to the Warp vortex."

"After I secure the relic!" Neferuaat's her eyes widened as she saw the other children, calling "This is no time to sleep, little ones! We have to-"

"Enough!" thundered Ahriman. "Be silent and follow, Neferuaat."

She pointed at Ahriman, laughed, and said, "What are you doing here, Ranoehk? I thought you were aboard the _Meskhenet_."

"I am Ahriman, your cabal master," responded Ahriman steadily. "You are Neferuaat, and we are leaving Pytren Hive now."

"Are my children dead? Are they… dead?" Her crazed merriment disappeared as suddenly as it had come. Full clarity and the realisation of what surrounded her broke over the Dark Mother.

Backing away from Ahriman, Neferuaat ripped at her hair as a fit of madness seized her. Small tremors across the hive city built into a great quake, shaking in cadence with each piercing cry from the sorceress. Ahriman grasped Neferuaat and attempted to thread a measure of composure into her psyche. He was rebuffed, encountering only cold emptiness, a vacuum expanding to fill the chamber as the Culexus entered the hall.

"My children! I can't leave them behind!" screamed Neferuaat, wildly thrashing against Ahriman's grip. "They can't leave! They're trapped!"

A nimbus of light danced about her head even as the assassin advanced. Years of training gave way to primal fear as Neferuaat utilized her powers. Brute force replaced finesse as she attacked the menace. Embedded pillars rose up to be hurled, bars of iron snaked out to ensnare the Culexus, and debris was turned into deadly projectiles. The banquet hall began crumbling, dissolving, as Neferuaat sought to utterly destroy the threat. Ahriman lifted Neferuaat in one arm and, with a telepathic command, he and the Rubricae fled as the chamber collapsed upon itself.

Fog shrouded passages and stairs blurred past. The Dark Mother's eyes bled against the Culexus' hollow touch while she screamed for her children. Her cries ricocheted through Pytren Hive, creating tectonic quakes which tore the city's millennium-old foundations. One of the Rubric Marines – Salah Reu – stayed behind. Ahriman could not spare a breath as Reu's soul was smothered in freezing blackness. Ahriman attempted to reach out to the Enumerations to clarify his mind and recall the correct path returning them to the vortex. The Culexus' being made it impossible, and the sorcerer did not want to call it happenstance when his surviving coven stumbled into the corridor where the portal waited.

Sorcerer-adept Ibni stood before the kaleidoscopic gateway, struggled to hold it open against the colossal psychic forces ripping apart the hive. Neferuaat's fevered mind caught on an image riding the lingering Warp current, two women fleeing Pytren Hive. They were the cause of her children's deaths. Even as the Culexus tore around the corner, Neferuaat did not see the assassin. Neferuaat's emotions welled up, too much for her to comprehend, and she threw her psychic dissonance into the hive city. Neferuaat swore she could hear her children's voices. Raw aether dripped from her fingers, the flesh hot as the rest of her body was coated in hoarfrost. Rime traced across Ahriman's war plate, over the Rubricae. Ice coated the walls in thick plates, shattering instantly in the Culexus' wake.

"Hurry!" Ibni yelled. He threw a telekine bolt past Ahriman, watched it end where the Culexus' unbeing began. The Rubric Marines passed through the portal as Ibni dissolved the threads binding the Warp vortex. Ahriman threw himself and Neferuaat into the vortex, looking back to see the Culexus bring down the sorcerer-adept. Ahriman gave no thought to Ibni's death, focusing his thoughts on the _Khermuti_ to anchor himself and Neferuaat. He and the Dark Mother had escaped and Ahriman could yet recoup his losses.

Left behind in the fragmenting hive city, the final spell cast by the Dark Mother circled the air and wound its way into the very essence of Pytren Hive, eager to hunt.

* * *

The spawn were screaming. What had been a protracted assault on the Stormbird and near breach was quickly turning into something else beyond the hull. The Warp beasts' hideous cries were abruptly silenced. Dram and Kel shared a look; after some consideration the pilot went to lower the ramp as the ex-Guardsman covered her. She wrinkled her nose at the prevalent stench hanging over the plaza, then forgot it as she looked at the massacre in open-mouthed shock.

"Don't move!" Dram ordered, reflexes lightning quick. Two figures stood at the edge of the Stormbird's lights, haggard and bloody, not all of it from the spawn. Training his barrel on the alien, Dram gestured to the human, "You come forward. If the xeno moves there's going to be a crater where he's standing."

Gren raised his arms, walking with a slight limp around dismembered limbs and over gore-streaked tiles. "The Emperor protects. We saw the lights and approached. My associate-"

"Name." The ramp shook as Dram walked down it, his gun never wavering from its aim on the alien's chest. A small quake rolled over the plaza. "Name and rank."

"Inquisitor Gren of the Ordo Xenos."

"Show me your rosette, then," Dram curtly ordered. Kel kept quiet and held her combat knife, unsure what to do if things turned violent. Another shiver, stronger now, rippled over the square.

Gren carefully reached for his rosette, producing the small gold pin. Dram took it, turning it over in one hand before returning it. "What's an Inquisitor doing here?"

"What's an Inquisitorial Stormbird doing here?" countered Gren. "I'm certain even a Guardsman notices the hive city shaking like a waking beast. This Stormbird wouldn't be here unless there was something or someone important."

Dram snapped, "Classified."

"My rosette and rank commands you to tell me," responded Gren. "Lower your weapon from my ally. The Eldar will match a show of force with his own, and even your pilot here isn't fast enough to stop him."

Dram lowered his hellpistol, glaring at the man's narrow face and odd tattoo. "Inquisitor Amara Kith is on Vespor. I have orders to wait for her return."

"Where is she now?" Gren's question came quicker than Dram would have thought.

Dram jerked his head toward the hive city. "In there."

"We can't leave anyway," Kel cut in. "I was fixing the Stormbird before you guys saved us, and I'll still have to patch her up after what happened."

Gren nodded. "Return to your repairs, pilot. My ally will protect you in the event the spawn return. Guardsman, keep a watch for Inquisitor Kith's return. Alert me when she appears." Dram's jaw set at Gren's orders. He marched to the far side of the Stormbird, unsettled by the growing tremors just as much by the new arrivals. He caught Kel's gaze as she passed, signalled that if anything should happen he would take care of it. The half-breed clambered up the Stormbird, tense and alert.

Margorach approached. "We cannot halt here. My troupe needs the relic."

"If I give the relic to you, then the Lord Inquisitor could purge this whole world. It would be a show of faith that I am entrusted with the relic, and can convince Saeger that Vespor can be saved with the threat sealed." Gren extended his hand. "Trust me, and when the time is right I will return it."

The Death Jester's attention was caught by the pilot moving across the Stormbird in an awkward lope. "And should I refuse, leaving you here without it?"

"Saeger will kill me and everyone who came into contact with us. You would have my blood on your hands. Will that stand up to the Rillietann code?" Gren braced as another quake rocked Pytren Hive's foundations. "Saeger would take great satisfaction in crucifying that half-breed pilot in particular. Would Sinead want that? Would your honour allow for it?" Margorach jerked back from the Inquisitor's words as though struck.

"Hey!" Kel called out. "I could use some help up here!"

The Harlequin took the lockbox from his cloak. Margorach passed it to Gren, stepping back with a warning. "Keep the relic safe. If you do not return it to us, the troupe will come for it, and we will not be kind in its taking. You will think Commorragh pleasant after we are done with you."

"Sometimes I wish you were more sanguine about my motives, Margorach."

"I hope your species were more pragmatic, mon-keigh. Your misaligned faith in others will be your downfall." Gren pretended not to hear the doom-laden portend. He trusted the damaged vessel could raise a signal to the _Salva Nos_.

Margorach sprung up the dropship's side, trying to ignore the pain in his left shoulder and muscles, his petulance less to do with Gren's plans than with being near the pilot. He approached the half-breed with slow, measured steps, focusing on the present to keep unwanted memories from flooding back. Kianemure's distant battle with human colonists had set his fate in motion, Maharra had brought him face to face with a half-breed's existence he could not disown. Margorach almost found himself hoping the fog had distorted the pilot's features, making him see what he wanted to. But up close, with the pilot handing a torch to the Harlequin, Margorach saw Sinead in those eyes.

"Hold this over the rent here. I have three hundred to patch up against this ticking time bomb of a world. You know," she drawled, oblivious to Margorach's unease, "this is the closest I've ever seen an Eldar. I've only seen an Eldar before when I worked with pirates, and he wouldn't talk to me. They were pretty quiet, just like you. And tall, just like you, too."

She chattered on, reknitting the metal while Margorach shone the light. He watched the half-breed work, despondent of what could have been had he stayed on Kianemure. "Did you know?" Kel shouted, hammering at a stubborn piece of metal. "I'm half-Eldar."

"I know," Margorach answered over the din. "You bear the most noble of aspects from your parents."

Kel, stunned by the Eldar's acknowledgement, dropped her toolkit. She recovered with a lop-sided smile and a forced laugh. "About time someone acknowledged it. I'm Kelvenia, but you can call me Kel." Sticking out her hand, the pilot was startled when the Harlequin actually shook it.

Margorach weighed his words, decided. "I am Taekaedr, once of Lugganath."

* * *

Animalistic roars, primordial screams. There came a shout, "He shields His brides!" followed by a flash of light. A sensation of falling, wind rushing past in an endless plummet, and then came the jarring impact. Rock scrapped Amara Kith's cheek, bringing her back to a pain-drenched world. Rolling on to her right side, the Inquisitor squinted against another burst of light illuminating the dark corridor and swirling mist. In that frozen moment Kith saw Ursula swinging her sword, the alien-forged blade slashing into the pus-weeping eye of a spawn. A horde crawled over the floor and walls on mutated limbs, intent on snuffing out their existence.

Kept back by the battle maiden's sheer willpower and adamant faith, the spawn attacked only when they saw an opening. And more strikes were slipping past Ursula's guard, her conversion shield crackling under the fiends punishing blows. The rosarius glowed a dull red, smoke rising from the ancient machine. In frustration one spawn roared, and spittle like acid flecked the floor and Ursula's armour, burning against the ceramite.

"He guides my hand!" Ursula parried a claw, dodging left as a snaking limb grabbed her leg. Bringing the sword down, the woman severed the unclean appendage from its owner. She cried, "_Sanguinem __meum __triumpho_!"

Amara Kith pulled herself forward with her remaining arm, broken ribs grating, blood coating her mouth. Close enough to inhale the burning stink of sulphur and feces, Kith pushed out with her silence. The horrors fled at its touch, retreating in to the palace's dark recesses, already regrouping, commanded by a greater will infused across the entire hive. A rattle came overhead. Disgorged from the concealed vents, a host of lesser daemons with hooked limbs and scaled bodies poured down on them. Ursula swept the sword around, hacking her enemies, stopping only when the last head rolled clean of its body. She sheathed the blade, wary of another attack but not ready to wait for it.

"On your feet, Inquisitor!" The Sororita hauled the Inquisitor upright, moving them toward a sweeping stairwell that disappeared into the gloom below. "On your feet!"

Pytren Hive trembled under their feet. Behind them came a rush of air and a blistering gale roared down from far above, drawing the fog with it. Tremors grew in intensity. A pillar cracked and toppled over the balustrade, taking the stairway with it. Their route cut off, Ursula unsteadily pulled Amara back up the corridor as the floor heaved.

"We shall find another path, milady. He on Terra will protect us."

Amara Kith struggled to pick up her feet, her body quickening as she used her nullility to keep the worst at bay. Blood seeped from her tourniquet while she was dragged down another corridor. Cold wind touched her lined face. The Inquisitor's mind set upon a plan, a suicidal one, but better than their. current situation.

"Out the window," Amara Kith indicated one of the many shattered windows. Ursula brought them over to gauge the drop, her heart plummeting at the distant vista below. Her armour's machine spirit was unable to calculate the distance to the lower tier in the dark and fading mist. She scanned the opposite building and found a ledge across the black gulf, twenty yards away and ten down. Tempestuous winds shrieked between Pytren Hive's crenelated walls, promising a crushing death to anyone attempting to jump to their salvation.

"I ask you to reconsider your course of action, Milady Kith." Broken glass dislodged from the window frames to fall as a seism rolled up from below.

"Our way back won't be the same as the one we took. The hive might fall on us." Sweat rolled down her brow as Kith struggled to hold her silence, the loss of her arm less concerning than her ability gnawing inside her body. No rejuvenate remained to combat the accelerated deterioration, the last vial used long before. The Inquisitor pulled an item from her belt, passing it to Ursula. "My gravity arrestor. It will help you for the… leaps of faith required."

If there was sarcasm in Kith's words, she hid it well. Ursula clipped the antiquated machine to her ammo belt. She trusted the Inquisitor in all things, but even this plan felt ill-conceived. A part of her wanted to shout they should keep fighting through the hive as penance for her inability to slay the Dark Mother. Yet the God-Emperor abhorred waste. Their deaths would not keep the witch from committing further atrocities. Ursula ripped her white tabard into strips, tying the dirty cloths around her and Kith's torso, securing them for the mad parcourse down. The battle maiden hauled them both up on the windowsill. Setting her eyes on the distant butting ledge, Ursula whispered to the saints that it would hold their weight. She glanced over her shoulder at the sounds of growls and crazed hoots coming up the corridor.

"Go," Kith ordered. Her heart beat tightly.

A banshee wail rolled toward them. Crazed shadows crept ahead of their monstrous owners, hinting at the nightmares. The void inside Amara Kith vanished and horrendous, painful awareness came flooding back as the daemons rounded the far corner.

"Go!" the Inquisitor shouted.

Ursula jumped. They soared across the gulf between decaying edifices, the gravity arrestor decelerating their sudden drop. Ursula's feet connecting with the ledge; the Sister of Battle sprang away from the crumbling stone. Pain ripped up her injured leg, but she endured as the saints themselves endured. A hissing roar rose behind them, and had she turned, Ursula would have seen lesser daemons and spawn spilling from the window in pursuit.

A wall rose up to Ursula's right. She pushed off it, soaring into the darkness and letting her faith light her path. The God-Emperor would protect them in this insidious landscape. Walls came to life, sprouting mutated limbs reaching out to the battle maiden and Inquisitor. Talons raked against Ursula's armour, ripped Kith's black tabard. Twisting away from the iron arms of a statue come to life, Ursula reflexively raised her arm. Her dented vambrace saved Kith from a skull-crushing blow. They dropped further away from the governor's palace, past hab-tiers filled with destroyed manses and smouldering merchant guilds. Ursula held on to the Inquisitor as they leapt by gothic arches, across ruined courtyards, and over shattered walkways. Pytren Hive's lattice of roadways spread out Ursula, a writhing labyrinth pulsating with unholy energy. Ursula forced her damaged body to move, smashing tiles and fingers alike that sprouted from the ferrocrete. Behind Ursula and Kith came the sound of bricks crunching and glass shattering.

In mid-leap, her stomach rising in her throat at the drop, Ursula twisted and caught sight of their pursuer. A heaving mass of twisted stone melded to flesh and bones, infused with eldritch Warp magic, raked across the hive's outer walls, punching through barriers too high to go over. It screamed from mouths as black as the abyss when it sighted its fleeing prey, and careened toward them.

"Emperor's arse!" Ursula screamed. Having sprung off a pock-marked wall, the Sister of Battle and Kith dropped past another tier. The daemonic form followed, demolishing everything in its wake. The rising wall of hellish sound grew, drowning out Ursula's frantic heartbeat. She risked a glance at Amara Kith, could not see if she was cognisant or not of their plight. Dropping onto the roof of a hab-unit, Ursula and Kith raced across the flat surface. Ferrocrete blasted up behind them as the building began collapsing under their hunter. Reaching the edge, Ursula lunged, sending her and Kith sailing off the edge. Plunging down past corroded metal and melting glass, a light winked in the mid-distance.

"Terra help us," whispered Ursula. The gravity arrestor caught their weight and she guided them to the top of another hab-unit. The familiar sight of the plaza could be seen through the fading mist, and Ursula shouted her adulation to the God-Emperor. Static broke in her ear as her vox-link crackled to life.

"Sister Ursula? We- can't-" Dram's voice cut in and out, the Stormbird's signal patchy. Another voice overrode the ex-Guardsman's.

"Hurry to- Stormbird! -can't hold-"

"Hold on, Milady Kith!" Ursula's breath caught in her throat when an abyssal scream heralded the daemonic hunter.

No time left, Ursula jumped without looking where they landed. She focused on the growing image of the Stormbird as the distance shortened. Landing on the expansive square, the Sister of Battle misjudged her step and fell, dropping the Inquisitor. Amara Kith was jolted into full consciousness as red-hot agony seared over her wound.

Ursula drew the sword as the mass crashed down behind them, ready to die fighting when an explosion of chromatic crystal and jarring patterns flew by. Before Ursula could assess it as friend or foe, it was already engaging the spawn. Ursula grabbed the Inquisitor, half-dragging her through the last traces of the fog. Her targeting reticule sighted Dram at the ramp, someone else standing beside him. She saw the Inquisitorial rosette, and did not ask questions as she hauled Amara Kith into the Stormbird. The ramp closed.

An ominous cry rolled over the plaza. Delirious with pain, Amara Kith felt hands pass her along. Someone strapped her to a chair as metal creaked. She felt the world madly rock, the rising howl of engines competing against the monster chasing them. Her eyes snapped open as a syringe jabbed into the ruin of her left arm.

She saw Gren. His face was blackened and scorched, tonsured hair a mess, and dry blood on his armour, but it was undeniably him. The Stormbird rattled and shuddered as she reached out to take Gren's hand in hers. The engines cries changed pitch as the craft accelerated. There was a sense of weightlessness, then they were airborne, speeding back to the _Iridescent Blade_.

Amara Kith whispered, and though her words were lost to the screaming engines, Gren read her lips. "You're the only family I can trust."


End file.
